Tuesday, December 30, 2008


I was seduced, I tell you! No, not in the romantic sense of candles, flowery talk and promises of an investment portfolio miraculously unscathed by the recent economic turndown; I mean in the sense that I foolishly believed that I was safe. Safe from the ghosts of Christmas past. Safe from the evils of the world (ie many of the people I knew in high school). Safe from the lack of drama in a town known as ex-boyfriend-ville. Safe.

Informal messaging medium (ie Facebook) seduced me into believing that only the most fun people in my life would find me. It was blissful. People befriended me (and those of you who haven’t, please do… provided I like you)—most of whom I actually knew, which is rarely the case on myspace anymore. For many, many months, I believed that it would all just remain an entertaining, sharing place.

I’m here to tell you, Facebook is not safe.

It began with friend requests from people that sparked distant, and yet distinctly uncomfortable, memories. I’m pretty sure people who didn’t like me in high school are now my “friends” on Facebook. Ok. Fine. We all grow, mature. Oh, what the hell am I saying? No, we don’t. I have no idea why they are my friends on Facebook, since I’m pretty sure we haven’t thought of each other in any sort of warm and/or fuzzy way in about 25 years. But there they are—all calling me a nickname I haven’t used since I was 20. Swell.

Next came the ex-boyfriends of friends. Now, I liked the friends, but I’m pretty sure I had absolutely no difficulty ignoring the existence of their ex’s (as any good friend would) once they firmly moved them out of the picture. Why are we all pretending to be friends now? In addition, I’m getting friend requests from the “hangers on”. You know—the guys who came with the ex’s of friends. But not only are those people reaching out beyond the high school memory graveyard, but they also want to send me things and add me to their birthday calendars. Huh? I don’t want to remember my own birthday this year—I certainly don’t want the distant hanger on friend of friend’s ex-boyfriend from 20 years ago bringing it up.

I know what you are thinking—just reject their friend request. But I can’t. That seems rude, in a way that bitching about it all here on blogspot does not. I know, I have a confusing ethical guide. Love me.

But today… the very nearly final blow occurred. My happy, drama free social networking came to a jarring halt, when I saw his name. The Ex. He commented on a photo I commented on—hell, he commented on a photo I took. But he wasn’t commenting to me.

And I froze. We haven’t “spoken” since the great text message fiasco of March ’08. I’ve been way too busy to moon about and think of him… often…as much… whatever. Still, I’ve been really good. He had his busy new, happy husband life, and I had my… um… you know… um… whatever it is that I’m doing.

But time stopped today. I’m sure you noticed it. That grinding, screeching sound was me seeing the Facebook message “________ also commented on ______’s photo”. That name. Can’t mistake it. It’s unusual. And all of a sudden, these many, many months later, there it was in front of me again.

I didn’t look him up. I didn’t do a search for him. I’m pretty sure he’s new to Facebook because he’s never had the time for this sort of thing. I’ll probably not see his name appear ever again.

And yet….

What will my reaction be when a “friend request” notice comes my way? And more likely, how will I feel when it doesn’t?

Seduced, I tell you – lulled into a belief that this particular button was done being pushed.

How ridiculous of me.


Monday, December 29, 2008

A Muddle

I’m writing this from a great distance… straight up. I’m flying home from visiting my parents in Ohio (where it was 6 degrees (!) at the start of the week and 66 when I flew out), and I began pondering the many things today that don’t make sense to me—in addition to that whole weather thing, of course, because that’s just crazy.

VIP Tickets to Parties
I don’t understand having levels of “special” at parties. This behavior would be unconscionably rude if you were throwing a party in your home, but throw a party in a club, and it’s considered de rigeur. You have the normal people, aka the people there to actually enjoy the party and occasionally gaze wistfully at the VIP section convinced that some distant day they will also be important enough to get past the rope. Then there is the VIP section. From my, admittedly limited, experience the VIP section is full of people who paid extra money to avoid the people who actually want to be there. This section is also highlighted by the dawning realization that there is a level of Really VIP that they still can’t buy into no matter what the ticket said. It is my fondest hope that one of these days someone throws a party and says “none of you are really all that important” and K-Fed has to buy his own bottle.

But that’s just me.

I will, however, begin separating my friends at any party I throw in my tiny apartment. I’m just kidding. You know I’d never have a party in my apartment.

Carry-On Luggage
Here’s a tip: just because you can physically carry it, does not mean it is carry-on luggage. If you could actually float a family of 12 down a river on it, it is not a carry-on. Also, you swearing that “last time it fit” when it has clearly never fit into anything other than a semi isn’t fooling anyone. The good news is when you crush everything around you and shove with all your might to get it into the overhead compartment, you wont have to worry about it shifting during the flight. It won’t shift. Ever. Not even when you hold up all the other passengers when you have to pry it out during deplaning. Well done.

Turbulence. I don’t get it. I don’t like it. I want it to stop.

Book Boy
Why is the man I’ve now dubbed “book boy” sitting in the window seat? We should clearly be sharing intellectual discourse on the meaning of… um… well, anything really, as you know what happens to me when I am faced with a boy who reads. Sadly, it appears to be beyond my ability to chat with him when he is a) reading, and doesn’t really look like he wants to be disturbed and b) there is a sleeping person in between us. Fate is cruel.

Again, self-explanatory and seemingly unending.

Kate, hoping that everyone had (or is having) lovely holidays!

Friday, December 12, 2008

Health Tips... Or

As many of you have heard, either because I’ve been coughing down the hall or because you’ve emailed, I have been sick. We all got through the big charity event on Saturday (which turned out well, I think), and then promptly collapsed. I’ve been philosophical about it. I’m going home for the holidays next week, so I’m glad that it is not starting as I’m getting myself onto a plane. Last week would have been a disaster. So, all in all, I’ve accepted this with only slightly more complaint than a normal week—ok, that’s a little bit of a lie because I have been whining quite a bit.

I’m not good as a sick person. I’m not one of those people who really likes a lot of nurturing attention when I’m sick. In fact, I’m more like someone who needs to find an empty cave (aka my tiny, dark apartment) and lick my wounds.

I’m also impatient which makes me an even more delightful companion—unless you actually enjoy hearing how someone’s skin hurts and then you might actually find me quite charming. I have things to do, and I have no time for sick, so occasionally, I like to pretend that I have freakishly gotten over the illness in record time.

Yesterday was one of those special pretend days.

I had to go to the store. Despite the fact that I still had a fever and had just woken up from what turned out to be a 15 hour “nap”, I decided that I just had to convince myself that I was fine and get on with it.

So, I got in the car.

Dumb. Very dumb.

I got to the store without incident. I went in, got my stuff without major drama. Technically speaking, I realized that I didn’t have to go out at all because I remembered that I had already bought the thing I was looking for, but that’s not important. Now I have two.

And then I went out to my car—and noticed that it was still running. And that the keys were, obviously, still in the ignition. But the good news is, the doors were totally locked so no one could steal it.

I swear to you, I just stood there and looked at my running car completely perplexed; as though someone else had committed this act of colossal stupidity on my behalf. I looked around. No one else seemed to be stepping forward to take the blame. And I just stared at it.

Another piece of good news—I never replaced the hardtop on the jeep after it was stolen, so it is a soft top. The bad news is because the back was locked down and still full of stuff from the charity event, getting in the back was not going to happen easily. So, I very calmly, in what I am now calling a walking sleep coma, unzipped the side window.

All good right?

Yeah. Have you seen a jeep? Or better yet, have you seen me? I’m not quite 5’3” tall. The top of the tires are above my waist. So, here I was—apparently completely loopy, with a bag in my hand with stuff I didn’t need (because it would have made sense to put it down) essentially climbing my mountain of a car. The challenge doesn’t stop there because it was a back window and there is a support bar that runs across that window. Not a problem. Apparently, sleep coma girl was very flexible. I managed to angle my body above the bar, then twist and then pull my legs into the car where I very properly shut off the ignition, grabbed the keys, and unlocked the door (admittedly, there was about a minute there where I was hanging and wiggling both inside and outside the car). I continued in my “everything is fine, nothing to see here” fashion into the front seat, out the front door, so I could then re-secure the window…. still holding the bag.

Needless to say, I drove home very slowly, and did not try again until this morning. And yes, I checked, the car is off, and I have my keys.

I think we can officially declare me awesome in every possible way.

Hey, at least I didn’t text message the Ex this time.

Kate, still coughing, but on the mend, in LA

Monday, December 08, 2008


Periodically, I get asked to check out other bloggers, and I thought this site might intrigue you guys.

If you are interested in hearing from a number of different perspectives on the dating scene outside of Los Angeles, you should check out this blog: http://www.kizmeet.com/blog. The blog is an aggregate blog of sorts – it combines perspectives from different love, dating, sex, romance, etc., bloggers from around the U.S. These people actually date and are both entertaining and informative! Be sure to check them out.

Saturday, December 06, 2008

The Event

And here's Elvis (aka Frank Spotnitz, writer and executive producer of The X-Files). I have to say, I've rarely been more impressed with someone. Frank is an amazingly classy guy, and it's easy to see why he is a fan favorite.

I love our volunteers. We've gone through the first part of tech and now we're working out the details of getting our beloved Elvis in the building. Here are some early pics.

Thursday, December 04, 2008

Well, Sure...


I saw this headline, and I thought of you guys: "Man Says Wife Was Accidentally Shot During Sex".

Well, who hasn't that happened to? I mean, if I had a dime for every time a gun went off when I was having an intimate moment, I'd...um...yeah, I'd still be broke because this doesn't ever happen.

I had to click on the link just to be sure that he wasn't being euphemistic about a "gun going off".

Nope. He meant it. He "accidentally" shot his estranged wife in the chest when he reached for something on the nightstand.

That's just bad luck, that's what that is. There is nothing worse than reaching over for a condom and shooting your date instead. Obviously, there needs to be a warning label somewhere--maybe on the gun, maybe on the condom. Oh, yes, definitely on the condom: "warning: reaching for this when a loaded gun is in the vicinity of your estranged spouse who has a restraining order out against you, could result in you "accidentally" shooting her". Perfect. That should make the lawyers much happier. After all, he's probably very upset about this "accident" and is getting ready to sue somebody because of the lack of that very warning.

Yeah. Nothing suspect about this statement at all. I have absolutely no doubt that he should get over this mistake in about...oh...10 to 20.


Saturday, November 29, 2008

That Sounds Like Work

I was wandering through my usual set of AOL alerts, and somehow, I ended up on an article that claims that there are 12 kinds of sex that every couple should have. What can I tell you; you can’t put a headline like that in front of me without me clicking on it.

Plus, I was confused…which should be a surprise to no one. I couldn’t figure out what they meant by “kind of sex”. I mean there are only so many orifices, and I was deeply concerned by the number 12 in this scenario. I mean, if nostril sex is suddenly on the table, I’m out. Seriously. I draw the line at nostril sex.

Imagine my temporary relief when I found out it was more like a “typing” reference. They meant things like “make-up sex” and “quickie sex”. Ok. So, once I banished the disturbing imagery of someone trying to shove something up my nose, I was more open to reading what they had to say.

But my relief was short-lived because this sounds like an awful lot of work. I mean, could I combine some of these? Can “quickie sex” be combined with “all over the house” sex? And do I get credit for the fact that I live in a small one bedroom apartment, so “all over the house” isn’t really all that difficult. Sure, difficult for me because boys don’t speak to me, but in theory, if I was resigned to actually having sex again, we wouldn’t have all that much ground to cover.

My friend Pen thinks I need therapy. This might prove her theory because instead of being mildly intrigued by the possibility of all this sex all over the place, all I could think of was “ugh, sex outside just means dirt and stones in places that shouldn’t worry about dirt and stones… plus, it’s just infection city… where’s the bathroom in this scenario?” Maybe I’m just channeling my inner Liz Lemon, but frankly, I’d be pissed if my mate destroyed my favorite Armani shirt because he thinks it’s “animalistic sex” night when actually it’s “leave me the F alone night”.

It’s not that I don’t see the value in all of this supposed sex. In theory, I do. “Make-up sex” holds particularly lovely memories for me, I think… well, from what hazy recollection I have. But right now, I think the best make-up present from a guy would not involve my shaving, plucking, stretching, stuffing or bleaching. Right now, “make-up sex” would involve him offering to give me a back-rub and then doing all the rest of my weekend work for me. That’s the thing that would leave a satisfied smile on my face.


Saturday, November 22, 2008

The Semen Spy

The holidays are clearly upon us. The halls are already decked—actually the winter holiday decorations have been up since October—and people have that festive glow that is probably panic because they’ve realized how little time they have before they can get everything finished. Or maybe that’s just me. But there is no doubt about it, people have their eyes on the prize (or 8 depending on your December inclinations).

Even though it is not yet Thanksgiving, I’ve had the question “what do you want for Christmas”. Frankly, I love this question. It’s so much better than “when are you going to get that damn thing finished” or “you realize your childbearing years are basically over”. The problem is not in the asking, but in the answering. How do I answer that question? I want a career that makes me feel passionately happy on occasion rather than chronically unfulfilled. I want to option this book and have the writer I want agree to do the adaptation for no reason other than he finds me personally intriguing. I want the charity event to be the most amazing thing ever (did I mention that director Rob Bowman is joining Frank Spotnitz for the Q&A), and raise a huge amount of money for NF (which is wildly under-funded for a disease this widespread). I’d like to find a relationship that is immediately comfortable with a man of honor who also finds the war on pubic hair disturbing. The problem is, none of these things fits well into a stocking.

There is one present; however, I really don’t want to receive. Also, don’t ask for it. Ok, maybe you can ask for it because it might be funny, right before it drives you insane. The present? The Semen Spy.

No, I’m not kidding this device actually exists. While it started out as a forensic tool for police departments and detectives, it has crossed over into the commercial world just in time for the holidays. Honestly, I can’t wait to see the ad campaigns. “Gentleman, think your woman is a cheating whore? Buy our product and see the glowing stains to prove it before you throw her skank ass out… also available in green.” Or “think the mailman looks a little too happy when he glances through your door? Before you set the dogs on him, turn out the lights and see the spray”.

I get how using this at the office would make sense. You might be reasonably sure that your husband and his frothy friend aren’t banging on the desk, so if the desk lights up like a Christmas tree for residue, you might have cause for confrontation. But otherwise, I don’t really understand how this is supposed to work for the average jealous mate. From what I can tell, it only shows you where the presence of semen has been. This isn’t television—there is no magical caption that pops that reads “Bob’s sperm—oh, wait, your name isn’t Bob. Burn.” So, guys, you better make darn sure you haven’t been spending some quality time on that couch before you hose it down for a little weekend forensics. Also, ladies, be careful. If you come home and find your man fondling your underwear, he may not have a panty fetish after all. No, he might just be waving a UV wand over Victoria’s Secret before swabbing them for a sample.

God bless relationships and the madness they bring. I mean, how could this possibly go wrong? Oh, and I’d like to point out that thus far, there is no female equivalent. No, ladies, if you are looking for trace vagina evidence on your man’s cigars, you’ll have to wait until next Christmas.

Ah, the holidays. You can just feel the good will flowing, can’t you?


P.S. I do, however, completely endorse the spy camera with the lens that looks like a dime. I’d like one of those, please.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

I’m Not Sure That’s What Fate Meant

That fate thing has a wicked sense of humor. When I pulled out items from the grab bag of fate, I was happy to have a mission, but expressed a bit of disappointment. I had planned for these to be huge, life-changing action plans, but what I got were things that I had probably planned on doing anyway. Little did I know that while not dramatically life-changing yet, the items have started to take on lives of their own.

Take this one: Attend Charity Events and Actually Converse with Strangers at Event. Sounds simple, right? I’m a giver. My one big skill in life is writing checks. I’m not a poet or a song writer, but give me a checkbook, and I can make it sing. I do also attend charity events, but I sit in the back, and if there are strangers around, I hide behind a well-placed plant.

But fate has a sense of humor, and I’m not sure exactly how I’m going to hide at this one.

I’ve gotten involved with a great group of ladies who are actual “doers”—and no, get your heads out of the gutter right now, that’s not what I mean! I mean, that when they have an idea, they make it happen. That’s a pretty rare skill. I meet a lot of people who have good ideas, and then never pursue them (including me). I meet a lot of people who say they are going to do something, and then they disappear. But these ladies—these ladies mean business. And there is no way I’m going to be able to hide from strangers.

What is the event?



Please join the "Inspired By" Gillian" team, in association with 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment, for The X-Files double-feature charity screening extravaganza!! In order to celebrate the release of The X-Files: I Want To Believe and on DVD/Blu-Ray and to honour Gillian Anderson's talent and philanthropy, we will be holding a fundraiser screening of FIGHT THE FUTURE and I WANT TO BELIEVE back-to-back!!

This is a charity event being held to solely benefit the organisation Neurofibromatosis, Inc. 100% of the proceeds from the screening will be sent in Ms. Anderson's name on behalf of Philes worldwide.

Saturday, December 6, 2008 from 2:30pm - 7:30pm

Location: Regency Fairfax Theatre
Street: 7907 Beverly Blvd.
City/Town: Los Angeles, CA

TICKETS: Tickets are on sale now at $50 per person and include:
*Q&A with Frank Spotnitz and Rob Bowman moderated by TV Guide’s Erin Fox
*screening of Fight The Future
*screening of I Want To Believe
*popcorn and soda
*commemorative programme
*a brief speech from a representative from Neurofibromatosis, Inc., who will also be on hand to distribute information and answer any questions.
*your name and brief note included in the letter and event scrapbook being sent to Ms. Anderson.

I can’t even begin to tell you how all of this happened. I’m not sure any of us anticipated how incredibly generous Gillian Anderson was going to be. I’m not sure any of us anticipated how available and generous Frank Spotnitz and Rob Bowman were going to be. I’m positive no one saw Fox Home Entertainment giving us a call.

Hollywood tends to get a bad rap. The image is of a place that is pretty selfish or at least entirely self-serving, and not particularly interested in the “nobody”. But, knock on wood, all we’ve encountered so far are extremely helpful, interested people—and that’s all the way down the line from assistants to managers to business partners to the studio to the “creatives” themselves.

I think you should all come out for the event!! But if you can’t come out to see me potentially pass out when forced to speak to strangers (an event, in and of itself that should not be missed), but you are interested in helping out the charity, there are a couple of ways you can do that, too:


Can't make it to the event? Purchase the
long-distance package for $20 which includes:
*information from Neurofibromatosis, Inc.
*one commemorative event programme
*your name and brief note included in the letter and event scrapbook being sent to Ms. Anderson.

And if that’s not your thing, how about an auction of memorabilia?


All proceeds will go to NF, Inc. in tandem with the screening event, on behalf of Philes worldwide in honour of Gillian Anderson.

We are very excited to have nine signed photos from Gillian Anderson available for auction. The first wave will commence on Friday, November 14th, 2008. The photos will be available for bidding three at a time, along with beautiful I Want To Believe trading card sets donated by the lovely Jacqueline Lopez, a friend and fellow Phile.

We will be adding more items each week.

Please keep checking back frequently for auction news and updates!!

currently available for this wave of bidding

Gillian Anderson signed editorial shot: http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=170279341153

Gillian Anderson signed promo photo for The X-Files: Fight the Future:

Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny dual-autographed promo photo from The
X-Files: I Want to Believe:

I hope to see you guys at the event. And if not at the event, I hope to see you jumping into the bidding fray.

Also, if you could pray that I don’t have a complete panic attack between now and then, that would be great, too.

Deep breath in… deep breath out…deep breath in… deep breath out…


Monday, November 10, 2008


Well, that’s just wrong! Sark-A-Like and I have been divided by cruel fate. He has been taken away to Department 1A—which sounds vaguely sinister and akin to being drafted into some type of clandestine service to plan for world domination. Of course, he’ll hear none of those plans because of that earphone fetish he seems to be sporting. But no matter! Sure, I can hope that they reject him in a way that I never would, and send him back to the assembly room. But what if they don’t? Tragedy.

Jury Duty

Are there two words that make you groan more often than “jury duty”? It’s not that I don’t understand my civic obligations. I do. But I appear to be the State of California’s favorite juror. This is my fifth summons in seven years. I think we can all agree that this is a tad excessive. For the first time ever, I nearly contemplated shredding it when it came. None of my friends get called as often as I do.

Then you know what everyone said to me? Don’t worry, they’ll never pick you. They never pick smart or outspoken people to be on juries. It’s bad for the defense.

Well, on the one hand, that’s very sweet that they think I’m smart and outspoken. On the other hand, I’ve been placed on a jury twice. So, um… yeah.

I’d like to say that among my highlights of jury service has been the meeting of wonderful men, full of dating potential. Not so much. I do remember a particularly lovely person a couple of years ago—juror #8. I never knew his name, and he was not placed on the jury. I watched him walk out of the room with a deep sadness. I spent the next two weeks wishing that both his intellect and his lovely eyes were still around.

Today had some promise. As usual, I walked through the hall in my own world. I sat down on a bench waiting for the doors to the assembly room to open. Much to my delight when I did clue in, I noticed that I was sitting next to a man who looked suspiciously like the man who played Sark on Alias.

Things were looking up.

True to form, Sark-A-Like has shown absolutely no interest. I’ve smiled, and he’s looked down. I’ve said things like “thank you” and “excuse me”, and he’s nodded. He’s talked to the guy on the other side of him. He’s talked to the woman in front of him. He has not looked at me.

He has no ring. He’s a little young, but I’m revising my age restrictions in both directions anyway—at this point, I can’t afford to be too specific. He’s clean and presentable, but not metro. He appears to have an unhealthy obsession with his iPod, though.

Short of hitting Sark-A-Like on the back of the head, I’m out of ideas. Plus, I understand that California’s jury system frowns upon anything that resembles actual acts of violence in the jury room. I know—picky, picky, picky. I mean, they drag us down here, and then they severely limit the entertainment factor.

Any words of wisdom from the peanut gallery on this pressing matter of national, strategic importance?

Kate, hoping to be in this jury room all day

Thursday, November 06, 2008

It Sounded Like A Good Idea At The Time

I’m confident when I say that none of us are perfect beings. I’m relatively sure that most of us can say that there have been incidents in our lives that we look back upon with chagrin. Some of us have probably had close calls, and somehow the whims of the universe managed not to slap us down—we may have even learned something in the process.

But this guy… well, it probably sounded like a good idea at the time. In the off chance that you also have homes with some debris that needs clearing, please keep this one salient fact in mind: never, ever use a blowtorch to get rid of cobwebs.


Confess—how many times have you done something ridiculous and had the moment of realization after the fact? What is your “it sounded like a good idea at the time” moment?

For me, I remember hitchhiking in the Soviet Union with a group of people after getting stranded on an adventure that we shouldn’t have been on in the first place. While an effective way to get back to the hotel before the bridges were raised—it was probably not the safest means of transport. When we finally got back the hotel, I do remember thinking “wow, that was incredibly stupid”. Youth. It’s my only excuse.


I Kid You Not

Little did I know that I had stumbled on to the new hot topic in dating: the affair. Check out this TMZ article:


That’s right; the tag line is “Life is Short. Have an Affair.” That lovely ad, complete with sentiment, will be running in Super Bowl programs – I guess we can at least be glad that they don’t have air time yet. Thank goodness the Super Bowl is never a family event…. oh, wait. On the upside, it could signal a valuable lesson for the kids about betrayal and how people have the morals of muskrats (side note, apologies to muskrats as you may actually have deeply profound morals, unlike the people who frequent those cheating websites, and I am just unaware of them.)

Well, thank goodness all of us heterosexuals are busy supporting the sanctity of marriage. If you just lost your marriage to the ridiculousness of Prop 8 here in California, you must really love seeing this.

What the hell is wrong with people?

Sunday, November 02, 2008

Should I Take That Personally?

What is it with the ads that adorn my pages these days? Check out the one I found on my Myspace page the other day:

"We Delete Members Unfit to Date".
Wow. Because my self-esteem in the dating arena isn’t shaky enough, now I have to worry about being rejected as “unfit to date”.

How the hell do they determine whether or not someone is unfit to date? I mean are they using criteria like criminal records? If a person has been convicted on multiple counts of rape, the liability issues alone might make that person look like a bad candidate. That would make sense to me. Maybe this particular service is just really looking out for its customers. Maybe you have to submit blood tests and social security numbers so they can screen out for STDs and nefarious deeds (and existing marriage licenses). All those things would be helpful. I might even be tempted (might, I said might!) to consider giving them a shot.


Why do I get a feeling that in actuality the dating service is more like the modern day version of the junior high school slam book? I have this image of a bunch of bitchy high school girls sitting around saying things like:

“OH EM GEE, did you see her profile picture? That shirt was totally last season. She’s going to drag our numbers down.”

“I can’t believe this girl didn’t think to get her teeth capped before taking that profile photo. Next!”
“I heard from Stacey’s mom’s brother’s ex-boyfriend’s assistant gardener that she might still have pubic hair, and she’s never bleached her anus. What the F? She’s totally unfit to live, let alone date.”

No, I’m not just looking for excuses not to try online dating. Why would you say that?


Wednesday, October 29, 2008

That Ad Says What?

I’m not a big fan of adultery. Don’t believe me?

My friend Pen was having a bit of a sleep, and the dream that filtered through was of Pen having (no doubt) deep and meaningful conversation with a certain married actor. Apparently, this moment of great intellectual discourse with the man who once played someone tall, dark and spooky became… um… romantic. But just as she was moving from osculating to something a bit more horizontal, she stopped. And she told him “no, I can’t.” Why? She claims to have heard a little voice in her head saying “this is wrong—he’s married”. That’s right. She heard me. From that day on, she has referred to me as “Kate, the Fantasy Killer”. It’s a moniker I take great pride in, mostly because I like to be difficult (t-shirts will be available in the lobby). For some reason, she was slightly less amused that I’m moralizing in her dreams, but hey… we’ve all got a calling.

Anyway, with certain exceptions (and I’m betting some of you can figure out what those are), I’m not someone who is going to enable that kind of extracurricular activity. So, imagine my shock when I saw this ad running on my blog about the lovely and talented Bonnie Hunt, courtesy of Google:

Nice. How about an ad that says:

  • “Married, but feel unfulfilled—talk to your spouse”

  • “Married, but feel unfulfilled because you are a selfish bastard”

  • “Married, but think the world is yours to screw with because you’re completely entitled to be the center of the universe”

  • “Married, but you don’t think the rules apply to you”

  • “Married, but took those vows to be more like helpful suggestions than anything truly binding”

  • “Married, but because she’s working, taking care of the kids and the house, she didn’t spend enough time oooh and ahhhhing over your stupid court case-- so you think it’s ok to hook up with someone who will be more suitably impressed with you?”

  • “Married, but like the idea of splitting everything you own because you live in a community property state”

  • “Married, but miss the possibility of catching an STD that makes your dick shrivel”

  • “Married, but your picture of your life always involved someone much younger and blonde, and what the heck, you’ve earned her”

  • “Married, but getting a promotion, and your current wife doesn’t match your new office”

Kate, The Fantasy Killer (and just slightly disgusted)

Monday, October 27, 2008

Bonnie Hunt Show

Bonnie did a recent segment on her new talk show where she was reunited with an old crush. Apparently, she had been talking on the show about a man she used to see in the old neighborhood. Her producers were let loose (those rapscallions!), and they end up reuniting her not just with the old crush, but all the guys in that crew on the show.

The experience was so great for her, that she has decided that she wants to do it for viewers. If you have an old crush, old flame, old casual object of daydreaming desire, she would like you to write in to her show at bonniehunt.com and give her the details.

Wow. Hands up if you think I could really get myself into trouble with this. I mean, what if I said I had a crush as a younger woman on … um… George Clooney. ;) She never specified that it had to be a person with whom I spent significant time. It’s not like he and I haven’t had some interaction. I spent some long shooting days on the same set as the delightful Mr. Duchovny. Does that count? I took Pen to see Alex O’Loughlin at Paley, so technically I spent several hours with him, too. Also, I have spent countless hours watching the work of these fine men. It just seems wrong to discount all of those positive memories in favor of a technicality.

Now if you want to be a stickler for the rules (whatever), I’m not sure who I would pick. I’m fairly certain it would be a bad idea to select any of my actual ex-boyfriends—either because there were excellent reasons to get the hell away from them, or because they have since married (and wives just don’t seem to embrace these reunions for some reason). I outgrew most of my teen crushes within days/weeks regardless of the circumstances. I’m sure there were some school girl crushes, but I can’t even remember those names.

How about you guys? If she continues to unfairly discriminate against uniting us with celebrity crushes, is there someone (or several someones—I don’t judge… ok, I totally do, but not in this case) who you’d submit? Because if there is, you need to go to bonniehunt.com right now and submit your story. I need to live vicariously through you.


Sunday, October 19, 2008

5 Months: The Drawing

So, we left piece of the next five months of my life up to fate. I have to admit, I found the idea kind of exciting. I added many options ranging from the easy (“go back to dance class”) to the slightly more difficult (“become a ninja”).

It didn’t turn out like I thought it would.

I thought I’d be faced with huge life choices because let’s face it, becoming a ninja would probably take hard work and some training. Instead, fate had me grab some things that are going to be a challenge to quantify and all in line with things I probably would have done anyway.

What does that mean?

Check out the video for the drawing results:

So, there you have it:

1. Go Back to Dance Class. Physically and, probably, emotionally, this is something I’ve been trying to work out for a while. I stopped dancing about a year and a half ago. Some of the hesitance to return is based on physical limitations, and some of it was just feeling overscheduled. I dropped the class and kept promising to go back once my life loosened up a bit. That never happened. I guess Fate has decided it’s time.

2. Sell or Produce the Kate Dating web-series. We’ve talked about this from time to time. I’ve started writing it. But I must admit that I keep second guessing it. Grant it, it’s a fictionalization, but it will require me to make some changes to my actual life. And if it’s successful, that will require some even bigger choices to be made. Clearly, Fate has spoken, though. Onward!

3. At Least Once A Week, Open Mind to New Ideas (and say “yes”). This one was added at the last moment by a friend of mine at work. I’m not sure how we’re going to quantify this exactly, but I suppose it means that once a week, I’ll have to do the opposite of my instinctual response (which is always “no”). We’ll see how this one goes.

Because the first one is reasonably easy to achieve, I did end up drawing a fourth.

4. Attend Charity Events and Actually Converse with Strangers at Event. This seems like an easy one, doesn’t it? Obviously, you’ve heard about me attending various charity events (like Clooney’s premiere) so you’d think this one would be a gimme. The trick here is that I have to once again countermand my natural instinct to avoid speaking to the people in attendance. Like Ricky Gervais’ character in Ghost Town says “it’s not that I hate crowds, it’s that I hate the people in them”. Kidding, I don’t hate all of them. I just tend to avoid awkward interactions, and I have no ability to strike up conversations with strangers (ok, unless it’s X-Files related, and then I’m practically Anderson Cooper).

So, these are the things that Fate decided for me. I have to say, part of me was really cheering for “be a ninja”, so I think in some ways I’m disappointed. Maybe I was hoping Fate would force me to make the huge alterations to my life that, in my more rational phases, I can’t decide to make on my own. Maybe the key is to take these initial options and really make them into big moments.

Stay tuned.

P.S. I'd like to point out that there were a number of "dating x,y,z" cards in the bag, and none of them came up. Even Fate thinks that my dating is too much to ask.


Thursday, October 16, 2008

Last Minute Suggestions

Get your last minute suggestions in for my new life campaign before noon tomorrow! The dart board of fate goes live at that point. I have 12 possible options right now for changing the direction of certain elements of my life. I'll let you know the three winners this weekend.

And no-- I will not add Duchovny to my dart board of fate following his separation. But I like where your heads are at. Keep them coming!

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

The XF3 Tease

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the waters... or in my case, back to the blog, The X-Files and another movie become a slightly bigger possibility. Sure, it's early days, and this could just be deflection.


FOX chairman Tom Rothman told IESB today that, despite the lackluster performance of the latter, there's still the possibility of another - and he's leaving it up to the cast and crew as to whether they'd like to see that happen.

‘'It's really up to Chris [Carter], David [Duchovny] and Gillian [Anderson]", Rothman tells the site. ...


So, in addition to all the other suggestions you have sent for my dart board of fate (which should be ready on Friday), I'm adding "get cast in XF3". It is true that I wont be able to achieve that in the next 5 months, but I could start the process of making it possible. Yep, it's going on a card on that board!

Now, all I need to know is how to best go about groveling to make this happen...

Friday, October 10, 2008

Five Month Plan

I’m sitting in the waiting room of the Jeep service station, waiting for my car after an oil change. Yes, that’s right. I know how to party on my vacation days. Because I have rare uninterrupted time to write (and I’m not seething because I’ve stupidly locked myself out of my apartment), I thought I’d share with you my new plan.

I have five months to make a new life for myself.

I know this sounds drastic, but I’m not happy, and things need to change. My friend Pen inspired me because she has roughly a 22 month plan for changing her life. I don’t think I have that kind of time. Let’s just say a birthday is coming up—a birthday I have dealt with by putting my hands over my ears and singing “LA LA LA LA LA LA”. Since that approach has not successfully kept time from moving forward, I’ve decided to do something more productive.

Now, I don’t mean that everything in my life will change. For instance, I have a close relationship with my parents. So, that stays. I have some friends I actually like (I know, this sort of violates the whole “I hate people” mantra I have, but go with it). But there is a lot of stuff in my life that I do not like, and this will change. I feel like I’ve been sleep-walking through my life, and I just can’t do that anymore. I can’t get that time back, and continuing to waste it seems like an unforgivable sin.

The only problem is, I’m not sure I have a plan. We jokingly decided on the “Dart Board of Fate”. Literally, I’d put cards up of my various options for the next five months, and then I’d throw three darts and see which ones will have to happen. I suppose I’d have to close my eyes to truly leave this up to fate, but that might be dangerous for anyone standing in the vicinity.

I know the things I don’t love, but I don’t know how to fix them. The job has seen better days, but it pays my rent well. In this economy, looking for a new job sounds like something fairly challenging. Investment banks are usually a good bet for people like me—but let’s face it, investment banks aren’t good bets for anyone right now. So, unless I make a huge move (personal assistant to Mr. Clooney kind of huge), I’m not sure how that one is going to shake out. And just for the record, I don’t have the temperament for personal assistant work. The first time someone asked me to get them a car/cab from Los Angeles while they are in Germany, I’d quit because working for someone that helpless
(or lazy) would annoy me.

I don’t have a house. This is not a shock in Los Angeles. People have cars here, not homes because the market is still way over valued here. This economy may take care of that, but so far, the three bedroom cape cod style house up the street is still over $2 million. In other words, the price is still just slightly more than I can afford at this time.

Of course, there is the love life. If I’ve proven one thing with this blog, it’s that LA is truly where dating comes to die. I’ve had a friend try to set me up with a friend of her boyfriend. Apparently, the threat of dating me was so strong and disturbing that not only did the date not happen, but they are no longer friends with the guy. Sweet. I said yes to a guy who said the always not helpful “we should get a drink sometime”. Yeah, as you might recall, he left the country two days later, and I’ve never heard from again. My hair-dresser was going to set me up with that guy who saw me getting my hair dyed and still thought I was cute (clearly deranged, but I agreed anyway). She never saw him again. There was the guy who was supposed to meet me at that movie premiere, and he… wait for it… never showed up, and I never heard from him again. So, I’m either the agent of dating death, or luck is really not on my side.

Despite all of this, I am still determined to make the next 5 months infinitely more interesting than it would be if I just continued to do what I do—hide in my apartment, watch the X-Files and work.

Feel free to send suggestions for the cards that will go up on the “Dart Board of Fate”. I’m hoping to start throwing darts at something by the end of next week. Of course, those darts might be heading at people rather than plans, but either way, things would definitely change.


Thursday, October 02, 2008

Valuable Advice

I very rarely give people financial advice. However, for people who are very concerned about the financial upheaval we are currently facing, I give you the following helpful guide (forwarded to me by the brilliant DM):

Monday, September 29, 2008


Do you ever lose things, and I mean really lose them, despite the fact that there is no real way they could have gone missing?

I lost a chocolate croissant. I’m serious. Now, I realize that for those of you who have seen my ass in motion lately this might seem like a good thing. But it’s not. It’s weird.

I live alone. I haven’t eaten it. It’s not where I left it. It’s in a bag. The last time I saw it, I think it was in the refrigerator, or on the counter, or on my desk. But no matter—the bag full of chocolaty goodness is nowhere to be found. It’s been missing for two days.

It’s possible that I ate it in my sleep. I do sleep walk on occasion, but as far as I know, this would be the first known case for sleep eating in my history. But then unless I also sleep-clean-up-the-crumbs-and-throw-away-the-bag-down-the-hall-because-even-the-bag-is-missing, well…. Yeah, I’ve got nothing.


Thursday, September 25, 2008

The Solution

Apparently, the solution to all the world’s problems does not rest with governments, personal responsibility, or me winning the lottery (I know, that last one was a shock to me, too). No, the solution to the world’s problems rests on penis enlargement and the ability to make those elongated members harder for days.

Don’t believe me? Check my email. I have 3700 emails in a general account. That’s right—3700. It’s supposed to be a business account. Alas, unless I’ve suddenly gotten a job as Dr. Ruth’s assistant, this was not the kind of business correspondence I had in mind.

But I can’t help but be grateful for the sage guidance being provided by my new correspondence. For instance, Mohammed asks the age old question: “Are you ready for endless December nights full of endless pleasure?” I have to say, the answer to that is yes. I’d just like to know why I have to wait until December.

Dongjin has promised to “restore power to my groins”. Awesome. I had no idea power had been shut off to my groins. I must have missed that bill last month. Can’t have my groins going dark, and resorting to groin by candlelight. It sounds most dangerous.

I’m dismayed by dell’s assertion, “Youis measured by the siz of your love tool.” Mostly because I’m not entirely certain I have a love tool immediately available, and if “I is” measured by that, I sense trouble may be afoot!

And while I’m uncertain as to how Reagan’s proclamation that I can “make chix tremble with excitement” or Jayme’s declaration that I can, “make all the girls in the neighborhood long for you” does me a bit of good, I’m eager to chat more with Carrie Maloney who intoned, “Relax. Take a Deep Breath. We have the answers you seek.” Carrie is clearly an Oracle. All I need to do is give her my credit card number or bank routing number. Thank goodness these modern day Oracles have made it so convenient to make the necessary sacrifice for enlightenment!

But first, an email to Charrli who claims to know “how to solve your everyday male problems”. Well, I certainly have problems with men every day, so this should be most informative. I’ll let you know how it goes.


Wednesday, September 17, 2008

For The Win

You know the day is going to be special when you start it by locking yourself out of your apartment at 5:00am. That's right. You heard me. 5:00am.

They are doing work on the pipes today, and water is going to be shut off intermittently throughout the day. Being the intrepid, enterprising soul that I am, I got up at my normal hour (despite working from home today) and set on a quest to do my mountains of laundry before they shut off the water.

Well… mission accomplished there. Unfortunately, in my haste to be very efficient and useful, I walked out without my keys. A fact I noticed at 5:10am.

I have no idea what to do. I have no cell phone. No money. Until 20 minutes ago, I had no pen or paper (laundry room debris has assisted me with that much). My only two saving graces are:
  1. I put a bra on before I went downstairs (something I contemplated not doing given the early hour), and
  2. There is a bathroom downstairs near the pool.

Thank you for small favors.

Isn’t there an office you ask? Yes. There is. It opens at 9:00am. I need to be working by 7:00am. Four hours has never seemed longer in my life.

Isn’t there an emergency number to call? Sure. No idea what that number is. And even if I did, I have no phone. I have no money for a pay phone even if one existed somewhere in the complex.

Can’t you just find another early riser to call? Tried that. My would be knight in shining armor came into the laundry room at 6:10am. I asked him if he knew the number, that I got locked out, etc. I was as winning as I could be given the fact that I haven’t brushed my teeth or showered yet. He mumbled something that sounded like “oh… uh, no”. Then he sort of laughed awkwardly, grabbed his clothes and left. Not exactly the fabled rescuer I had in mind.

My next gallant assist did come from a gentleman who tried to help. He called the office number, but hung up when the message started to play. Only after he left did I think that maybe he should have listened to the message.

So, here I sit. Counting dryer revolutions is not nearly what it is cracked up to be. The pen I found in the laundry is now leaking ink all over my hands (no doubt about to get all over my newly cleaned clothing). I’m running out of left over old “water shut off” notices to use for my memoirs.

I have never looked forward to folding my clothes so much. I better make that activity last because a great expanse of nothingness appears to wait on the other side. When I get back into my apartment, I will seriously consider surgically implanting a spare key.

One of the service managers lives in the complex. I don’t actually know where, but there are only 10 or so buildings here. How hard can that be? I figure just as the office is opening at 9:00, I’ll be half my through knocking on doors.

Did I mention the pen that was leaking is now nearly out of ink?

Oh, yeah, it’s Kate… for the win!

Finally, a lovely young man came into the laundry at 7:00 with a cell phone in hand. We called the main number, waited through the message, and I was talking to the after hours service, one of the service managers walked through to start his day early. Of course, when he teased me about not getting back in until after 9:00, my reaction to the joke was somewhat muted (actually, I thought to myself: "I’m going to cut you. Seriously. I’m going to cut you right now, even though I’ll have to use the edge of my laundry card since that’s all I have on me"). God bless R for letting me in--- two and a half hours after I started the day. Awesome.

Sunday, September 14, 2008

9 to 5

Today I decided to combine my love of musical theater with my quest to spend more time around straight, single guys. Well, one out of two isn’t bad. I did see the new “9 to 5” musical, and enjoyed the hell out of a great “girl power” story.

This is a simple one. If you loved the movie, as I did, you will love the musical version of “9 to 5”. Dolly Parton wrote the music and lyrics, and there is a definite advantage to knowing the characters (and the experience) the way she does. While certain things are altered for time and staging, much of the original film and dialogue survives. It does take an adjustment to swing back to the mindset of the late 1970’s/early 1980’s with some of the concepts and songs feeling a little outdated, but once you make the adjustment the ride is pure enjoyment. The best alteration made to the original script is the addition of a love interest for Violet in the form of Joe (played charmingly by Andy Karl). Because it’s so strikingly similar to the film, it’s difficult not to compare the performances in the lead trio against their film counterparts. I’m happy to say that it did not take long for the leading ladies to make the parts their own. Based on the enthusiastic standing ovation at the end, I’m guessing I’m not the only one who responded that way.

I knew I was going to enjoy the cast. I saw Stephanie J. Block (who has show stopper moment in “Get Out and Stay Out”) and Megan Hilty (funny and vulnerable, particularly in her signature moment in “Backwoods Barbie”) in the lead roles in “Wicked”, so I knew that they were going to be top notch. I was pleasantly surprised by Allison Janney. While I loved her character on The West Wing, and have followed her work in films for years, I wasn’t quite convinced that this was going to work for her. While no one is ever going to cast her solely on the strength of her voice, she works her belting, character voice for all she’s worth. Luckily, the character of Violet requires a great comedic actress more than a “pretty” voice, and Allison is fearless and entirely successful.

My biggest surprise, in terms of the cast, was the outstanding work by Marc Kudisch in the part of Franklin Hart. He has an amazing voice, and works the sleaze to his advantage. The part is written as much more overtly despicable than the movie version, and Kudisch tackles it with seeming delight. Also winningly sycophantic is Kathy Fitzgerald’s Roz. Her skilled performance (and perfectly written songs) makes her sympathetic in a way that the film’s character never was.

The show is doing its try-outs here in Los Angeles through October 19th at the Ahmanson Theatre. From here, I believe it is going to New York, or is at least a good candidate to do so.

Too much fun to miss!



Friday, September 12, 2008

Condom Ring Tones

Hey, I just deliver the news, I don't make create it.


I'm picturing myself in a meeting. In this meeting, we're discussing the complexities of strategic planning and the difficulties of doing that in a shaky economy. And then suddenly, I realize that I haven't turned my phone off because my boss is now tapping her toes to my catchy "condom, condom, condom" ring tone that is echoing off the hallowed halls of the fine institution I call "work". Yeah, that wont come back to haunt me during bonus season.

On the other hand, if a guy is actually thinking about sex a zillion times a day anyway, perhaps sending the so subtle "condom, condom, condom" message is actually a good thing.

Well, at least you all know what I'm getting you for Christmas.

ETA: If you would like to listen, here is the ring tone: http://www.condomcondom.org/


Sunday, September 07, 2008


Buying a tabloid in Los Angeles is sort of like buying porn in Ohio. You know it happens, you’ve heard about it happening, but no one admits to doing it. And if they do admit to doing it, they are filled with shame and guilt.

That was me on Thursday (the tabloid, not the porn), and now I feel like I need some sort of public confession.

Hi. My name is Kate, and I bought… sigh… the National Enquirer. But it was only once—I swear.

I really do feel guilty. I hate these tabloids. I hate that paparazzi make life really complicated here. I hate the fact that these tabloids can say anything they want to say and that truth is rarely printed. I hate the fact that occasionally they get things right because then it lends credence to every other piece of garbage that they write. I hate the fact that someone standing next to me at the time could have been in that tabloid. I hate that I couldn’t stop myself from buying it.

Why did I buy it? Oh, I’m sure if you ponder my predilections and recent celebrity news you’ll be able to figure that out.

How did I buy it? Badly. The tabloids here are actually kept right next to the porn. I think I might have felt more comfortable buying something like “Naughty Sex Slaves and the Women Who Spank Them” than the trash I did buy. In fact, for a moment, I tried to pretend that I was actually checking out the porn instead. But then I quickly grabbed the tabloid and folded it just in case someone might see me do it. Then I also grabbed the fall preview special of the TV Guide to cover it. I had my cash in hand, and I kept looking around me when I went up to the cashier.

All I can say in my defense is, it just happened. It wasn’t planned—because if I had thought about it ahead of time, I would have worn dark sunglasses and a trench coat.


Saturday, August 30, 2008

I Don’t Mean to Be Difficult…

Look, I don’t mean to be difficult, but…

(Oh, wait. Yes, I do. I’m actually on a lifelong quest to strike the perfect balance between difficult and invisible. So far, I’ve only really managed to achieve invisible, but I can tell that the public is pulling for me to finally achieve my full potential.)


If you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time, you know that I don’t like to fly. I’ll admit that this dislike may color my perception of the people around me (aka dangerous felons who will need to be put down by my lethal use of spork and synthetic blanket). I may also be a tad more sensitive to the behavior and casual conversations of those people similarly trapped in this flying canister.

However, I feel I need to issue some warnings to the traveling world—particularly if there is any chance that you may encounter me at some point during your jaunts.

I don’t want to hear “Oh, those onions-- I’ll be tasting those the rest of the trip” as you settle into your seat next to me. Hey, I understand. Digestive fortitude isn’t my thing either. Still, let’s refrain from sharing unless we really have no choice.

If you have large red patches up and down your legs, shorts might not necessarily be the best idea. However, I understand that you want to be comfortable. So, if you do go with the shorts that are so short as to leave no doubt the last time you had a good waxing, let’s not call more attention to the red splotches by asking the age old question “are both poison ivy and poison oak contagious?”

Gentlemen, I know robes are comfy, and brown is still a very “in” color for fall. No one can deny that a good hooded robe will really keep your ears warm in the sometimes over air-conditioned flight. Many a time I’ve thought, “hey, ceremonial robes would be so much more comfortable on that long flight”. I realize that I don’t know all of you tempted to try this—some of you may really be headed back to the monastery… or you may enjoy a rich and rewarding career as a shepherd. But unless you are actually traveling with your flock, or are actually Moses, let’s leave the staff at home, shall we? Six foot six inch be-robed men wielding what could be considered large offensive weapons make both passengers and airline officials nervous. The vague notion of flying with the embodiment of “Death” (despite the fact that you went with the less traditional brown instead of black and the staff isn’t curved enough to be considered a proper scythe) just doesn’t instill the kind of confidence the airline is trying to achieve.

Speaking of flocks… I love pets. I’m a pro-pet kind of girl. Sure, I’m allergic to everything under the sun, but I’m signing up for the “aw, how cute!” frequent exclamation league on a regular basis. Here’s what I don’t love—200+ passengers having their flight delayed because a woman pulling a Paris Hilton with a puppy and a pee pad hadn’t mentioned to the airline that she’d need special accommodation for said adorable creature.

I don’t profess to know how airlines normally deal with this thing, but I’m guessing they don’t love a person with an animal showing up and yelling “surprise!” Also, little known fact, when they say that a small animal can ride under the seat in front of you—they mean in a cage. No, really, they mean a cage—not your purse. And no, they don’t care if the animal is used to being stuffed in your adorable matching puppy bag. Also, if you don’t tell them ahead of time that you are bringing the adorable little nipper with you, they don’t know to avoid seating you in the row at the head of coach…the one with no seat in front of you (and therefore, no “at feet” storage area) thus rendering the lovely cage someone procured for you slightly less helpful.

Thank goodness they managed to move six other passengers so that the furry delight could sit next to you for the flight. But you have to be aware that the person sitting next to you might be allergic to the puppy and doesn’t deserve to sit next to the walking cause of respiratory distress for the nearly 5 hour flight (no, not me, thank goodness). The good news is-- I’m sure the man you trapped in his window seat totally didn’t mind not being able to get out and go to the bathroom for the duration of the flight. He looked fine. Really his reward was when you stopped crying about how victimized you felt and turned to cooing for the rest of the flight through lips that looked like emergency flotation devices.

Me? Cranky? Nah.



Friday, August 22, 2008

Unmitigated Disaster

A number of you asked whether or not I jumped in and did that interview with the potential for mild embarrassment that I talked about here.

I did do it. Everyone who said “what could go wrong?” please raise your hand.

Yeah. You people with your hands raised, this post is for you.

Many of you already know what happened. You can just skip this post (or skip to the end if you want to know the outcome) unless you want to relive the delight that was my life (as it so often is).

Back in June, I had an interview to promote the new X-Files movie. Against all my better instincts, I agreed to do this. Oddly enough, I wasn’t all that nervous leading up to it. I had a plan. I reviewed some episodes, thought about my answers, picked some high points that I wanted to hit, and I did some shopping. I even got my nails done because I tend to talk with my hands, and they needed some help.

The key here is, I had a plan. I even decided to think positively. This was going to be fun. It was going to be fine. I was going to be charming and witty. Chris Carter would see it, and invite me to the premiere (certain degree of irony in that thinking now since I actually did go to the premiere).

I’ll admit now that my first mistake was the plan. Had I stuck with my usual “this is going to suck, it will be a disaster, I will be a babbling idiot”, the universe may have tried to prove me wrong.

Instead, the universe laughed.

At the last minute, they decided not to have hair and make-up people at the shoot. There were going to be nine of us that day, and all girls, so they figured we could all do basic make-up and hair ourselves. Plus, they wanted us to look natural.

Yeah, the whole “natural” thing is not really a good idea for me. I can barely comb my hair and put on eyeliner. So, I decided to go to the MAC counter at the mall to have my make-up done before the shoot. The mall is in Century City. The interview was in Beverly Hills. They are maybe 2 inches apart. Ok, slight exaggeration, but still, not a far drive.

The plan was to get my make-up done at 11:00. My interview was at 12:30, so there was plenty of time to get the make-up finished and get to the interview.

I walked up to the MAC counter. Alas, there was only one woman working, and she was already doing a make-over. So, I waited for about 5 minutes thinking that she might finish up, but no such luck. So, I went over to the Clinique counter.

The Clinique girl agreed to do my make-up, and I thought I had scored and everything was going to plan. But for some unknown reason, the other girl at the counter decided to wander off to get some stock in the storeroom, leaving my girl there alone. So, naturally, she kept getting interrupted, as she was trying to do my make-up. Not just interrupted by someone wanting to check out. No! She kept getting interrupted by people with lists of products for her to fetch, and what about that special gift (I can’t tell you how many times I heard “What do you mean I can’t get the special gift that was only part of the promotion for 2 days last week, I’m here now!”). My favorite people were the people who came up to her and said “don’t worry, this will just take a second, I know exactly what I want” and then proceeded to not only have no idea what they wanted, but when she made a suggestion, they argued with her.

And yet, I was relatively serene. Ok, I was nervous as hell about the interview, but the plan was in place. This was just a small hiccup in an otherwise perfect plan.


What should have been a 20 minute make-up session took a little over 45 minutes. By the time I got out of there, and ran for the car, it was already 12:05. And since I was so late, I didn’t really have a lot of time to fix the make-up that maybe might not have suited me all that much—for instance, the lipstick that could have eaten Manhattan. Seriously, I’m pretty sure that it clashed with my hair in normal daylight—adding lights to that combination… yikes! I had no choice but to go with it.

But even though I was running (yes, literally running for the car), I was still feeling good at this point. Beverly Hills was just not that far away.

Screw that—on a Sunday, Beverly Hills might as well be on the other coast!

The street before Beverly (where the interview was) is Rodeo. Rodeo was blocked off entirely for a classic car show. Which means that even though I was on Santa Monica Blvd, every idiot who had any vague interest at all, was slowing down to look at the cars as they passed the street. And I mean every single car. At that point, I was starting to get a little panicky because I still had to find parking once I got to Beverly. So, I called the coordinator, and I told her that I might be 5 minutes late because of parking. She said no problem, and I started to relax.

HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! Sometimes I kill myself with the humor.

I turned onto Beverly, and I realized that the parking garage nearest to the studio was full and closed to further parking. Not to worry. Somehow, I managed to pull a u-turn, and got in line to park in Crate & Barrel’s parking lot. What I could not do, was actually get into the parking lot because cars were backed up on the road, and only one car could get through at a time. Finally, I got into the parking garage. I got all the way down to the 4th level because I just wanted to park, and run.

Too bad the elevator wasn’t working.

So, I ran up 4 flights of stairs. Yeah, that was a good look for camera. At that point, I was frazzled, sweating, my make-up was melted, and it was 12:30. Out of breath, I ran to the building to press the buzzer to let me into their studio.

Only to notice that I was on North Beverly.

The interview was on SOUTH Beverly.

I think it was a miracle that I didn’t start to cry.

I gritted my teeth and ran back across traffic and down 4 flights of stairs to the car. I got into my car to call the coordinator back, and of course, could not get a signal. In fact, I could not get a signal for another 5 minutes because I couldn’t get out of the parking garage because no one would let the cars out of the garage and back onto Beverly.

I finally got her on the phone, and she asked me if I knew where I was going—and the answer at this point was “of course not”. So, she told me to go east on SM, and then turn south past Olympic. The only problem was, I was already east of the street… and didn’t realize it. By the time we both realized that I am way too far east, I’d already driven out to Doheny.

The only good thing was that even she was laughing at that stage of the game.

I finally arrived at the studio. I was 25 minutes late. I was sweating. I was beyond frazzled. The only coherent words out of my mouth for the last 45 minutes had been curses (LE, you would have been so proud).

I got up to the right floor (miracle!), and they were all waiting for me to go in, and because I was so late, we went straight to the interview. I told the coordinator that I just wanted to brush my hair for a second. She looked away to talk to someone while I was doing this. She looked back at me and said “ok, do you want to brush your hair?”


I didn’t have a mirror, my hair was a disaster, and all of a sudden I was sitting on a stool in front of a camera. Luckily, she was giving me powder for shine, and brushing my hair back into place.

Unluckily, the shot was a medium close-up, which meant pretty much breast level up. I was wearing a tank top underneath a v-neck, short-sleeved cardigan. Normally, you wouldn’t think twice about it. But when the camera starts at the boob, and the tank top is white, suddenly the entire bottom of the frame is filled with breast. This may be why no one who has seen the final product has ever mentioned the lipstick.

The interviewer started telling me the rules—nearly all of which I immediately forgot. Things like “they wont be able to hear me, so try to incorporate my question into your answer”—I don’t think I did that once. Things like “don’t use pronouns, use Mulder or Scully instead”—doubt I remembered that one. Then he made me memorize opening lines that involved spelling. People, I can’t spell on good days. I was still sweating from my trip through hell, and I had to spell????? Shit.

I was supposed to look at the camera and say my name and “I’m an X-Phile. That’s P H I L E”. Yeah, I know. To which I responded, “you actually want me to say that?” And then I laughed and warned him that the slate is going to be the hardest part. It was the only part I was supposed to look into the camera for, and even that was hard for me because after I said my intro, I was supposed to hold the look, to give the editors room to cut. But I started to break out into a tremulous smile because I feel like an idiot.

And then suddenly the nerves that had gotten beaten out of me during the frantic flight to the interview were actually worse than before because the adrenaline was still racing through me. My plan was completely blown to hell. I remembered none of the points I wanted to make. All of my analysis was gone. At the beginning, my voice was shaking. And my concentration was so bad that I actually forgot what his question was, and wandered off mid-tangent.

Rather than giving expert commentary about how the intellectual tension fueled the sexual tension, or that the dichotomy of beliefs within each character was vital to their development, inanity ruled the day. Instead of all of that, you know what came out of my mouth? I’m a shipper. What???? I have a job. I’m an adult. I have an MA in Economic Development. I even have a background in English Lit. What came out of my mouth? I’m a shipper. It’s not that I’m denying that I am one, I’m just floored that this was all I can remember saying.

Also, I committed the cardinal sin—I looked directly into the camera a couple of times. The camera guy stood up and did a light test, and it caught my eye, so I flicked my eye up, and caught the camera. It happened at least twice, which means even if they liked my answers at that point, they couldn’t use them. Luckily, I was still babbling, so I really wasn’t providing them with anything useful anyway.

Did I mention that leaning forward into the camera means you’ve either moved out of frame, or your cleavage is even more obvious? I started praying that none of my pink parts strayed.

Did I mention that my hair kept getting caught in my lipgloss, so that in the midst of talking, I had to pull it out?

Did I mention that my mouth was so dry that I had to keep running my tongue over my teeth to help with the dryness? I hope to God none of that ever sees the light of day.

I prayed for great editing.

I kept telling myself that it didn’t matter because it was just going to be part of the electronic press kit, or maybe an online thing. So, I asked the interviewer when we were done what this was going to be used for.


It was an international television special airing overseas the week of the US premiere.

Then I thought, well, at least the people involved with the show wont see it. Let’s face it, the only one I’m really concerned about is David because I’d rather not have his first real impression of me be “Well, she has boobs, but can’t string a sentence together to save her life.”


David’s publicist is across the street. They drop by on occasion. Sweet.

Well, at least…

It was shown in the theater at the London premiere.


Now that a couple of months have passed, I can tell you that the product put together is actually fantastic. I’ve only seen the dubbed German version, but I sound quite intelligent dubbed in another language, and my appearances are mercifully brief. I do owe my first born (ha! Good luck with that) to the editor. The vast majority of the piece includes behind the scenes material, interviews with the principals and other fans sounding far, far, far more rational than I did. The frame was tighter than I thought so the breasts did not get any extra special screen time. Most of what they used of me was voiceover—and it was voiceover for what Duchovny was doing on screen. I’ll admit to loving that.

And the lipstick…well, it’s growing on me.


Friday, August 15, 2008

I Must Get Married

I have to get married. That much is clear now. Oh, not because of that companionship, biological clock and love crap. No, I must get married so I can have my very own version of this wedding cake.

I can’t express to you how much I love this website (http://cakewrecks.blogspot.com). Apparently, this cake started a wedding cake trend when the pictures surfaced back in May. While clearly my blog is the best one on the entire internet, this site made me cry with laughter. I particularly like the pregnant chick cakes. Bring on the baby showers!

As for my own cake, I’m taking suggestions. I’m leaning toward my effigy without glasses, but I’m flexible. And I love the idea of you all celebrating my nuptials by cutting into a life-size version of me. Really, there is no better way to honor what I mean to each and every one of you. Sniff.

My friend Mich suggested that the best cake for me would be images of Mulder and Scully in flagrante delicto. I would have to agree on that. That cake would be quite something, and no doubt bring me fortune and the respect of my peers.

Come on guys… get a move on. I need to make this happen.

Saturday, August 09, 2008

The Letter

Hands up if you’ve ever written the letter.

You know the letter I’m talking about—the letter that you write after the break-up. It’s the 15 page masterpiece that gives vent to everything you held back over the entire course of your relationship. It’s the letter that should properly chastise the bastard, while simultaneously making him realize that error of his ways. It’s the letter you write when you think for some reason you can argue the other person back into the relationship… back into loving you. It’s the letter you should always write, and the letter you should never send… but always do anyway.

I’ve never met a single person who has ever had any luck with the letter. No relationships reunited as a result of the neatly typed diatribe’s arrival. I’ve never heard of a situation where the guy has called and apologized and said “wow, I’m so glad you told me about the thing that I did to piss you off 8 years ago—that has made such a difference. I was a dick!” I’ve never heard of a guy writing the letter.

Have I ever written the letter? Yes. Surprisingly, not to The Ex. I’m not sure if that was because I was wrapped up in the delusion that we’d get back together without my expert analysis, or if I was simply unable to put my feelings into words. No, my letter was for a guy who I was barely dating. I’ve mentioned him. He was the guy who pursued me, promised that he wanted it to be his mission to make me trust men, and then dropped off the face of the planet. Oh yeah, he got a letter. I gently suggested he grow up, and then went on for at least eight pages (double sided and hand-written) about all the ways that life had failed me—and his role in this failure, in particular. I later found out he received the letter, realized what it was and only got to about page 3 before giving up. Plus, he was preoccupied because it arrived the day after his favorite aunt died. Yeah. Awkward.

Despite my lack of success with the letter, I’ve actually been fairly encouraging of those wanting to write one. I think on occasion that writing can help you get your feelings together and help you get rid of them (or at least process them). I’m not terribly fond of actually sending the letter, but I understand if you do.

Why did I bring this up?

The girl downstairs is reading her version of the letter over the phone (presumably to a friend as a test run). I know this because I walked by her apartment on the way to the elevator. As I passed by I heard her mid-recitation: “and all the times I drove you to the airport, all the times I maintained your friendships because you couldn’t be bothered, all the times I worked my life around your schedule, all the times my career took a backseat to yours…” Ten minutes later when I went down to toss my garbage, she was on “you were never supportive, I felt like I was in the relationship alone…” I feel like she’s really getting to the heart of the matter now because I can hear her from my apartment, and she’s reading louder. Whoever the recipient is, he is about to get a seemingly well-deserved and extensively formulated missive to go screw himself.

I raise my ice cream in salute to you 401.



Monday, August 04, 2008

I’ll Get Right On That

It’s entirely possible that I’ve finally gone around the bend. It can’t be a surprise to any of you. I’m sure many of you have thought that I was crazy in the past. But here’s the thing—I’m fairly certain my horoscope actually yelled at me on Thursday.

No, I’m not kidding. I’m fairly certain it actually yelled at me. It basically said, “Stop complaining. If you want something, put together a plan and then make it happen already.”

The tone was quite terse and commanding (perhaps Scully is now moonlighting as a horoscope writer). It was as though my horoscope has given up on me. It threw its hands up in the air (because apparently, in my insanity, I’ve ascribed to the horoscope human attributes), and said enough!

I thought horoscopes were supposed to give me vaguely comforting information like: something, something moon is in something something orbit so someday a man might speak to you if you click your heels three times. It’s not supposed to chastise me. I mean, I joke that the universe and I have our troubles, but this is going a bit far.

What's next? Will it start using expletives? Will I pick up the paper and read, “B****, comb your hair and maybe familiarize yourself with the word “gym” once in a while”? Or “unless Chris Carter is paying you, you might want to focus on the job that is paying you, dumba**”? Or “interesting choice of outfit, I hear retro-homeless is really in style right now”? Or… well, you get the point.

Does this happen to you?

Kate, who is actually a little afraid to read her horoscope now

Monday, July 28, 2008

My Review

I was going to give you my review of "The X-Files: I Want to Believe". Make no mistake-- I love this film. I was happy the first time, but thrilled the second when I had time to focus and not think, "wow, the filmmakers are behind me and damnit, Duchovny looks hot".

The X-Files grows up. This is a character piece. Sure, it's got a creep factor, but the story is a love story like no other. And I mean love in its purest form, as well as it's most twisted. The parallels between Scully's story and the main plot leave you with some fairly profound notions. This is a thinking person's film -- far closer to October indie films than summer blockbusters. If you are looking for explosions and CGI, don't bother. But if you are looking for character development, suspense, humor, a debate about redemption and love, then give this movie a chance.

But rather than tell you all the reasons I loved it, I thought I'd link to a fellow blogger. I've rarely read a more articulate review of any movie. So, even if you don't care about this movie at all, read this guy's writing: http://reflectionsonfilmandtelevision.blogspot.com/ (Do not read if you are trying to avoid spoilers. Major spoilers here).

Have no fear-- I'll be going back to bemoaning my fate tomorrow.


Saturday, July 26, 2008

Full Circle To Find The Truth (aka How My Wednesday Ended Up To Be Surreal)

Photo courtesy of gadd1960.

By now, many of you have figured out two things: 1) I love The X-Files and 2) the new movie comes out this weekend. There are characters, actors and storytellers that stay with you, sometimes inexplicably, for years. For me, this ranks as one of my most successful love affairs.

But it has been fraught with danger, as well. And no, I don’t just mean Diana Fowley.

When I moved to Los Angeles, I started doing extra work—not because I had any great desire to be an actress (I’ve always been a hobby-ist at best), but because it’s Los Angeles, and the opportunity to see production from the inside has always fascinated me.

Over the years, I had the opportunity to work on The X-Files on a number of occasions. One of the best days I had on that set was for the episode “all things”. Why was it great? Many reasons. I was friends with a PA, and he took me around the standing sets. I sat on Mulder’s couch. I wandered into Mulder’s bedroom and sat on his bed wondering why he had a brandy snifter full of condoms if the guy was never getting any. Then I read the script sides for the shooting day. Ah… it became much clearer. Plus, Gillian Anderson was directing, and watching her go through the process (working with Kim Manners and directing David Duchovny, in particular) was fascinating.

But despite the joys of the day (which included working two scenes with David), it was also the site of another of those pesky regrets—another road not taken.

Because it was a small shoot, I didn’t go back to the holding area with the other extras when my first scene was finished. I stayed out of the way and watched. But because I was there when Gillian decided she needed another body to cross the screen behind David, I was a logical choice because I was nearby. I was placed and waiting. I couldn’t have been more than 10 feet away from him.

It was a scene where Gillian was supposed to grab his shoulder and turn him to face her. But she was behind the camera, and her stand-in had left to go to the bathroom. So Gillian yelled out, “can someone stand with him?” And I didn’t move because, of course, she didn’t mean me. Why would she mean me? I figured I was a nobody, so I should definitely not do it. Sets are pretty regimented and extras don’t have a lot of leeway generally. That overwhelming feeling of “I’ll get into trouble” kept me from moving. Then she yelled out “Really anybody”. But before I could force myself to move, a guy on the crew moved into place.

While it became a very funny moment -- the crew guy turned David and then the two of them started pretending to be very deeply in love—it’s a missed opportunity that has never really left my mind. It seems like such a little thing, but… No matter how many other times I worked the show, I kept kicking myself for not taking the chance presented to me.

I think the memory of this regret propelled me from the moment they announced that this second movie was going into production. I know it was a powerful motivator in my getting on that plane in February to go to WonderCon. If the adventure was going to be costly or time consuming, I started asking myself the question—will I regret not taking this chance.

I can’t say that I’ve regretted going to any of these events. I’ve met amazing people, and had such fun, again. Yes, I realize it is all fiction, etc – but it has just been fun. Remember fun? I’m not sure I remember often enough.

It was because of one of these chance encounters at the Paley Festival X-Files event that I probably had one of the most surreal days of my life.

As you know, I finally got my priorities straight and went to the fan event outside of The X-Files premiere. As the pictures and videos show, I got into the first 500 fans. I had sunburn. I was tired. I probably smelled. But I was so much fun to just be with these people. Apparently the video I had taken in the morning of three of the line campers had made the rounds because during the fan event, Frank Spotnitz actually mentioned seeing it. The news spread, and mentions of it made the LA Times and even on to the TV Guide channel premiere coverage (the reporter actually asked Duchovny about it).

And that would have been enough. I would have been okay with the just having those fan moments. I didn’t have tickets to the premiere. I tried bidding on a charity auction, and while for 2 shining minutes I held those tickets, I eventually lost them. I was resigned to it.

And then I got this email: “I have an extra ticket to the premiere—I don’t suppose you want to go”. It was from a girl I met and interviewed at Paley. We had stayed in touch. And still I hesitated. There were complications. There was a juggling act, financial issues and inconvenience—not to mention the whole “night”, “crowd” and “stress” trifecta.

Then I remembered regret. I remembered what it felt like to not take the chance. And while I wouldn’t be able to say I was definitely going to that premiere until I was actually in the seat, I took a deep breath and said “yes”.

I ran from the fan event to a parking garage where I changed clothing (if I ever become famous for any reason, I have no doubt that the parking garage footage will be on TMZ). And then I walked the red carpet in my red dress with my frazzled hair and dazed expression.

I think I still have trouble believing it. After all of these months of waiting, I was there. I watched that movie with Chris and Frank and David and Gillian and the hundreds of other people involved in making something I loved. Honestly, I think they got almost a bigger kick out of our reactions than seeing the movie themselves. At one point, there was a lot of “WHAT???” yelling going on, and then people starting laughing at us. Duchovny even mentioned our reactions in an interview he gave the next day.

It felt like coming home. There were so many people I had met from each of the previous events that also got in, and I’m not sure any of us could claim to be unaffected by our luck. We laughed. We cheered. We gasped. We may have cried (a little, and very elegantly, of course).

I know what you are thinking: “dude, get a life, it’s a movie”. But The X-Files was never just about the show or a movie. It has always been an experience. The stories have always been about seeing life in a different way. Maybe I finally took some of that to heart. And while I may always look upon that day on set with a twinge of regret, I’ll also have an amazing few months of experiences and an evening that still doesn’t seem real.