Friday, February 29, 2008

Maybe It's Me

Like most 20 somethings I had a lot of hobbies, but only a few stuck with me into my 30s: dance, theater, The X-Files, my love of chick lit and all things Ben and/or Jerry – and my complete fascination with epidemiology and written accounts of biological and chemical warfare. You know, typical girlie stuff. Obviously, I’m not a scientist. I don’t work for the FBI and not a single living person can prove that I’ve ever been a spy. But the linked story seems awfully strange to me.

Sure, maybe Mulder and Scully would happen upon a tourist carrying some ricin with him, but ordinarily it’s not really on the list of Vegas activities. For instance, you rarely hear “oh, hey, honey, don’t forget to pack our bag-o-ricin for the trip”. I can personally guarantee you that my packing checklist never reads: Toothbrush? Check. Ipod? Check. Vial of Ricin? Got it!

I don’t mean to be a nudge, but can anyone explain to me why it isn’t illegal for random people to have ricin on them? I mean, I can’t buy more than 5 boxes of Sudafed at a time, but someone can carry a substance so lethal that even an amount the size of the head of a pin can kill an adult? Well, sure, I can see why that would be true. And by the way, the reports indicate that a random person happened upon a suspicious substance—which means there was far more than the size of the head of a pin in that room. How excited would you be to know that your room shared a ventilation duct with that one?

As for the terror angle, I’m sure I’m more paranoid than most (Plague Wars is bedstand reading for me), but unless one of the occupants of that room was a castor bean salesperson, or growing castor beans in his hotel room (for medicinal purposes like on the spot bone marrow transplants, or just for fun), I’m missing what the perfectly innocuous reason for having ricin would be. The reports say that it might have been left in the room by the previous occupants. Because if you are going to travel with your baggie of death, it’s perfectly plausible that you’d accidentally leave it behind along with that extra pair of socks.

I’m sure it’s fine. Nothing to worry about. But just in case, I think we should all hope that what happens in Vegas really does stay in Vegas.

Kate, who has an overwhelming urge to yell “Mulder!”

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Welcome, A Plug and Why

First off, I have to give a big welcome to the more than 6,000 people who have stopped by the blogspot site since Saturday. Please picture me waving to you all. That’s about um… 5,980 more than normally visit. Ok, that’s a slight exaggeration, but still it was a quite a pleasant surprise. Generally, this blog is about starting over in Los Angeles—you know, the dating failures, the dating non-starters, the dating disasters… all the things that make finding a mate in Los Angeles about as likely as understanding The X-Files mytharc. It’s possible, but it is going to take a lot of work.

So, while you probably wont find this blog as exciting as Mulder and Scully—hell, I don’t find it more exciting than Mulder and Scully — I hope you check back from time to time.

Now for my plug: the book Stars in Their Eyes is a really fun read, particularly if you enjoy “Hollywood” stories. It’s funny; it’s poignant and really gives you an interesting look behind the curtain. I enjoyed the characters generally, but I must admit a certain extra special affinity for Leah (my sister in Jimmy Choo). That girl is determined! It’s written by Danielle Turchiano, and it’s available through Definitely check it out if you are looking for a new read.

Shortly before embarking on my flight of fancy to San Francisco, I finished reading another book called “Insider Dating” by Jennifer O’Connell. It covers quite a bit of ground, but essentially it focuses on a now single woman (post-divorce) who sets up a confidential database of men in the Boston area. The database isn’t just name, address, etc. This database logs the good, the bad and the ugly. Would you like to know if your blind date has a mommy complex, or is a habitual cheater? Save yourself some time and log into her database.

Clearly, there are huge pitfalls in this idea if it were applied to real life. For instance, any bitter person could set up an account and make all sorts of unfounded accusations about why their relationship ended. But in her universe, the information is generally sound and based on referrals, etc. I know there is a part of me that should be appalled by this, and yet a much bigger part of me thinks: “I wonder if this really exists, and if so, how do I get a password?”

You see, the main character is just slightly obsessed with “why”. Why did her marriage end? If she had known x, y, z before getting involved, would it have made a difference?

In most of my earlier relationships I know why the end came. When a guy you are dating sleeps with three women—none of whom are you—it’s not that hard to figure out that the relationship is not destined for the long haul. Also, I find a guy not showing up for a date ever again to be a clear indication that he might be slightly ambivalent and lacking in the true devotion department. When you float down the steps in your gown (looking every bit the princess) to meet your prom date, his "how are you going to dance in that" does give you pause.

But what about a relationship that just ends? You both still love each other. Neither one of you did anything egregiously wrong. There is no other party involved. It’s just over.


Maybe relationships tend to have shelf lives, but “why” is starting to become important to me. When you start dating, people seem to exchange a degree of information (at least these are the rumors I’m hearing). “Have you been married?” Yep, that seems to be a standard, although it immediately leads to consternation for me. If I say “no” and move on, am I lying? Obviously, in the literal sense, I’ve never been married. But skipping over a relationship that has informed the better part of my life over the last 15 years (if you count the dating and the aftermath) seems like a fairly big omission. But admitting it, will lead to “what happened”. Admitting it leads to “why”.

I have no idea why. It seemed like the relationship timeline went something like this us: first date-together forever-lifetime-lifetime-lifetime-lifetime-over. It was a million little things that probably wouldn’t ever create red flags in the lead character’s database. It was a million little things and in retrospect, nothing important. Nothing.


And if I can’t figure out what happened, how do I keep it from happening again?


Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Kate's Moment of X-Files Zen

I know I said I was done posting shaky video of the X-Files panel, but this one made me laugh. Turn down the volume. Frank Spotnitz is answering a question very seriously, and David and Gillian were talking amongst themselves. It's just a cute moment. Since they had been up shooting all night long, I'm guessing a certain amount of punchiness had made its appearance. So, turn the sound down and enjoy my version of a moment of Zen.


Monday, February 25, 2008

Caprice Crane and Final Thoughts on the Weekend

As I’m sure was the case for many of the people who attended the festivities over the weekend, coming back to real life proved fairly difficult. I was completely unmotivated to come back to work—actually, I was completely unmotivated to get out of bed. Maybe it is a sign I need to do more unexpected and adventurous things. Nah, that can’t be it.

If you are still looking for videos of the event, a great one is here:

Also, if you don’t mind spoilers, you check out these:

The flight back to Los Angeles (which had Jason Kyson Lee from Heroes and Rachael Taylor from the Transformers on it—both coming back from the same convention that I was at) allowed me to finish a book by Caprice Crane called “Forget About It”. Essentially, the book was about a girl who has seen life take so many turns for the bad (boss steals her ideas, lousy relationship with her mother, boyfriend is cheating, etc) that when she gets in an accident, she decides to fake having amnesia so she can start fresh.

It’s not just that she pretends to not know people, she seizes on this singular opportunity to change how she relates to everyone around her. She was always the girl who never stuck up for herself. She never made waves. She never wanted to cause trouble. The “amnesia” allowed her to lose her constant filter.

I’m not saying that I need a case of faux amnesia, but it made me really consider what having that kind of momentary freedom would feel like. I don’t have her relationship issues (thank goodness!), but I find myself in that “Oh, no, don’t want a fuss” position. Don’t believe me?

Have you ever gotten stuck in a stairwell of a high rise in New York? My friend M and I were working on the 35th floor of a building in New York (pre-9/11 safety situation). She and I took the stairs up to the 36th floor for something—the elevator wouldn’t go up that high because that floor was under partial construction. We had pass cards that should have opened the doors. The key card didn’t work. No big deal. We’ll just walk back down to the 35th floor. Yeah. That would have been a good plan… if the key card had worked there.

So, we’re stuck on the stairwell 35 floors up, and we’re a tiny bit flummoxed as to our next move. We decide to head down the stairs. Reasonable, right? Sure. We try all the key card stations several floors down. Still nothing. Well, we were already fairly far along, so we realize that we’ll just have to go all the way to the bottom, and take the elevator back to our floor. It was a good plan. Solid reasoning involved there. Would have worked too, if it hadn’t have been for the cage.

For some reason, the lower floors had a steel cage-like door blocking them. And it was closed. And locked.


Ok, things at this point were not looking good. We had one more fairly reasonable option—the emergency phones. There were phones being put in every 5 floors or so for just this type of situation. We were sheepish. We were contrite.

We were also screwed because the phones didn’t work. No cell phones, either. Just M and I standing on the landing back on the 35th floor stairwell. We had only been gone for maybe 10 minutes. No one was missing us—or looking for us.

It was at this moment that I learned a very valuable lesson: calm demeanor and problem solving acumen are not character traits that get you rescued. M (God bless her) started screaming and pounding on the door. There were people working down the hall, so it was reasonable that eventually one of them would begrudgingly get off their butt and open the door (which someone finally did—looking way put out that we’d interrupted her very important game of solitaire to do it). See, M had already envisioned our rotting corpses in the stairwell about a two or three seconds after the door shut behind us. I’m pretty sure in her mind, we’d already been eaten by dogs—never mind that if dogs could get in, we could get out. She had seen our untimely end almost immediately, and was not going down without a fight.

You know what I did? I sat down on the stairs. My brain was trapped between two things: 1) I wonder if I can figure out a way to rewire the phone so it sets off an alarm and 2) we’re going to get into trouble. Forget about the fact that we hadn’t done anything wrong. Forget about the fact that when we finally did get out, we were able to alert the building managers that there was a safety problem with the non-operable key pads. My overriding thought as I was trying to MacGyver my way out was “we’re going to get into trouble”.

I’m that person. I’m the don’t-make-waves girl. I’m the one who obsessively checks her blackberry because I don’t want anyone else to be inconvenienced at work. I’m the girl who covers for colleagues constantly because I don’t want the hassle and don’t want them to get into trouble. I’m the girl who spends years not asking for what she wants in a relationship because she’s afraid of the consequences. I’m the girl who would never fly off to San Francisco for an X-Files event because it’s frivolous and would mean other people at work would be covering for her.

And yet I did it anyway.

Maybe this weekend was my own little form of amnesiac rebellion.

Kate, who thinks if this rebellion continues, the men of Los Angeles need to beware

Sunday, February 24, 2008

Better Than Sex 3

Just remember that I warned you. The video is awful! Sorry! It's cute, but it looks like I was having a fit when I taped it. It's because I was holding it above me, and my arm was shaking :)

But here it is. By the way, I think you should hit youtube to see the better shots of this stuff. There are some great videos out there.

People have asked about the Teaser. I did not record the teaser. They asked us not to, so I didn't. I know, I know, that whole "following the rules" thing. If you just cannot live without seeing it, I'm sure it's still on youtube (someone captured it from the big screens and uploaded it), although I'm also willing to bet that Fox will want that removed at some point.

One thing about the Teaser version that someone captured-- it is missing the very beginning. It's not much in terms of number of frames, and you don't lose anything except the one thing that made it sort of funny. We had been entertained by videos in between the panels periodically (sort of keep us from creating havoc theory, I think). The Fox guy came out and said, "ok, take a look at this". So, we weren't really sure what we were seeing. And then the footage began with what I can only describe as "thumping". As the camera comes up, we could see the row of men, and it was an immediate recognition in the audience that we were seeing movie footage. The roar that was the reaction from the people watching was incredible. Frank, Chris, Gillian and David were still backstage somewhere. I don't know if they realized how crazy people went. People yelled and cheered when David and Gillian appeared in the frames, but the crowd was absolutely beside themselves when it the footage first started. It was wild.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Better Than Sex 2

Better Than

That was better than sex.
P.S. If you click on the photos they get larger except for the first one which was a screen grab off of a very shaky video. When someone else was answering a question, David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson had this cute moment. Sadly, my video of it sucks. I'm betting one of the thousands of other people there caught it.
Sorry for the slow upload. I'm actually waiting to get on a plane back to LA right now. I'm hoping to get more up tonight when I get back to LA.

The Line

Suspense is killing you, isn’t it? I’ll give you a hint. I am now sitting in a line. Sitting because I’ve never met a floor I didn’t try to make my own. This is a new line and much warmer than the first one. The first one was outside the Moscone center, and it was just a little nippy up here in the wilds of northern California.

That’s right—I am at a convention. I have never been to a convention before, but I thought… ok, where do boys go. No football right now. No baseball. Comic books and science fiction conventions? AHA! And it doesn’t hurt that a matter of hours, Chris Carter, Frank Spotnitz, Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny will be in front of me. Ok, that might have been the real draw. But the boys were a nice bonus. More men have talked to me in the last 2 hours than in the last 5 years in Los Angeles. Maybe it’s just the nature of a convention crowd, or maybe it’s just getting out of LA. It doesn’t matter.

This is a photo of the main line at 9:30am.

Thanks to my new best friend Susan and her mad seat finding skills, I am now in Hall A. These people know their convention shit. See, there was a line, and then everyone in the first line (which was actually 3 lines) got to run like their lives depended on it, while pretending to walk sedately, to get seats in the main hall. I was in that first crush, and I had mistakenly taken off my boots and jacket and strewn them around me. Entirely inappropriate, but I was a convention virgin, so… Thank goodness for the girl behind me who grabbed it for me. These people rule.

I am now in the 4th row on an aisle with my camera ready.

By the way, for people who have friends coming, everyone who was in line this morning got into the hall.

There Comes a Time

There comes a time in every young woman’s life (ok, relatively young… slightly still young… remembers what youth was like…vaguely) where she looks around and says “this is it?” I’ve come to this point on more than one occasion. In fact, I seem to come to it every 5 years.

Clearly, there is some level of romantic and employment frustration that feeds into the dissatisfaction. But there are genuine moments of “I’ve got to get moving” that tend to become an overwhelming motivator—not always for good, of course, but motivating none-the-less.

I moved to California without knowing anyone here. A friend and I came on vacation and nine months later I moved here. I was still with The Ex at the time, but he was moving for a job, and I had this consuming impression that I had to find something for myself before that imploded. Of course, I thought it would be a temporary implosion, but still, I moved.

I tend to spend a lot of my time trying to make things easier, better, stronger and/or faster for everyone else. Moving to California was something for me. Would I make the same choice again? Maybe. Would it be a good idea for me to start taking some chances “for me” more frequently? Definitely.

So, yesterday I got on a plane. I hate flying, and I got on a plane anyway. It was time for a little adventure in San Francisco. Today is going to either be an exercise in frustration, or an amazing experience.

Check back later for photos on (I can’t figure out how to upload to myspace with things hosted here). They’ll answer the following question—did Kate: a) elope with the Ex after his quickie annulment, b) spend the afternoon with David Duchovny, or c) get arrested when neither occurred.


P.S. James McAvoy was on my flight. I wasn’t sure it was him when I was standing next to him in the boarding area. Then I heard the accent. Then I heard his friend mention the name Keira. Pretty much had it sussed at that point. He’s adorable!

Thursday, February 21, 2008

New Amsterdam

I could be in trouble. I might be adding a new television program to my line-up. New Amsterdam hasn’t aired yet, but I’m already a little enamored with the chiseled jawed leading man. The premise is tailor made for a hopeless romantic wrapped in a tight cynical shell—he is immortal until he finds “the one” and then he’ll be able to grow old with her.

Yep, just like that I’m in at least for the premiere. That’s all it takes.

Of course, if this were my reality, I’d meet “the one”, my immortality curse would be lifted and then I’d be hit by a truck. OR, I'd meet "the one", my immortality curse would be lifted, I'd age while my "one" started dating a 22 year old. So, as with most things, this plot point works best in fiction.

Kate, watching American Idol and thinking that some of the cuts were kind of abrupt tonight

Saturday, February 16, 2008

To the Men of Los Angeles

I realize that I’ve indicated before that I would prefer to return to a more civilized time of dating—where a gentleman caller left his intention to speak to you with an engraved card on a silver tray rather than yelling outside your window “Yo, am I gonna hit dat or what?” I’m really not that rigid. For instance, the tray totally doesn’t have to be silver. Pewter is fine.

But most of all, I need to understand that a man is not mocking me, and that he is indeed asking me a leading question— a question leading to a potential date, that is. It’s hard enough to decipher the ever changing vernacular of the modern male without adding the filter of “Los Angeles” to it.

So, here is a tip: “you have a really interesting energy” accomplishes neither of these things in my world. I have no idea what that means. “Interesting” in this case could be anything from a positive affirmation to a “she really needs to be institutionalized”. “Interesting energy” is something I expect from a therapist (or an actor), not a date.

Please forgive me if once hit with that comment I don’t immediately jump at the chance to find some sort of soy product with you. I just don’t realize that this is your attempt at a pass. I’m not saying that you should start with “nice rack” (although, it totally is), but perhaps something a bit more direct so that my nonplussed look doesn’t hurt your feelings.

Kate, now carrying an English to Los Angeles Male dictionary at all times

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Watching the Detectives

I just heard a story on the Kevin and Bean radio show about an interview they are going to do with a detective agency. Apparently, Valentine’s Day is their busiest time of year.

I am now giggling, and I’m not sure I can stop.

Nothing says love like jealousy, photographic evidence and revenge.

I’m just saying.


P.S. head on over to pick up the perfect Valentine's day gift-- "LA, Where Dating Comes to Die" apparel!

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

The Black Hole of Holidays

I know what you are expecting. You are expecting me to rage against the darkest, most evil of all holidays…

President’s Day.

Kidding. Clearly, I am referring to Valentine’s Day. You know—the one that is constantly inspiring insipid commercials about releasing your inner cupid.

Every year in my "single" history, I’ve battled the holiday by sending out kiddie valentines to my single friends (and some not single, but in the spirit). Snoopy, Barbie, Nemo, Scooby—the gang was all there. Alas, it didn’t happen this year. So, to the people who used to get them and don’t receive them this year, it’s not because I hate you. Well, I do, of course, but that’s not why you didn’t get a valentine. I just didn’t have it in me.

This year, I’m going to do something different. I am going to share a good Valentine’s Day memory. Hey, it’s not that shocking. There was bound to be at least one.

It started like any other Valentine’s Day: I was avoiding it. I had a boyfriend. I actually liked him. Those two things didn’t always go together. I told him right off the bat that he better not do anything for Valentine’s Day. I was having none of that sappy, over-commercialized, Hallmark-holidayness.

He took me at my word. Hmph. He didn’t mention it. I saw him in class, and we had dinner in the dining hall. Hmph. Well, he could have put a little effort into convincing me that it wasn’t Satan’s own holiday. But it was good. He respected me enough to honor my opinion. Sure. Fine. Whatever.

I went to bed completely satisfied that I had gotten what I wanted. Yep. Lucky, lucky me.

At 12:01 am on February 15th, he snuck into my room and woke me up. He had roses and a smile.

And I just knew I was in very big trouble.

Thinking about this now, I’m sorely tempted to leave my apartment door unlocked this year. LA is safe, right?


Thursday, February 07, 2008

“Does Clutter Make My Butt Look Fat?”

“Does Clutter Make My Butt Look Fat?”

I’m not a frequent Oprah viewer, but today’s episode was too fascinating not to share. I was home nursing what appears to be my first cold of the new year (yehaw), and I caught the clutter tag line. Essentially, Peter Walsh posits that the clutter in your home makes it impossible for you to lose weight. The clutter of your home is reflected by the clutter of your body.

At first, I was skeptical. But as I sat on my ass feeling cranky and munching on chocolate, I took a look around the disaster that is currently my bedroom. And I had an epiphany.

I normally don’t have a big weight problem. I fluctuate here and there, but nothing really dramatic. I’m not as small as I was in college, but I’m probably not as smart anymore, either. ;) You know when I gain weight? When I start going for easy meals like… um… 3 Musketeers bars. But I have noticed that this urge for snack meals comes when I’ve taken the easy way out around me, as well. As the mess builds around me, everything else goes to hell, too.

According to Peter, cheap and easy is our downfall.

LOL! Well, I’ve always applied that axiom to men, so it makes sense that it would apply elsewhere.

Cheap and easy meals lead to weight gain. Taking the easy way out all the time and not cleaning, straightening or putting things away means that the apartment gains weight, too.

It was oddly inspiring to me. Now, I don’t see myself turning to the darkside of gourmets—largely because I hate cooking, prepping and shopping for food—but it has left me with the urge for soup tonight, rather than trying to make a dinner out of hot chocolate mix. So, that’s a start.

Since I’m someone who has never met an extreme I don’t find intriguing, I took this to the next logical level. If I throw all my shit out, will I be in bikini shape by April? Seriously, is each room worth about 10 pounds? 20? Anyone?

Kidding aside, it was a fascinating idea. I’m pretty sure Peter Walsh’s book is the same title, and you can see more about the show here:

And just remember—cheap and easy is bad for food, bad for organization and bad for men.

Kate, who thinks she would totally clean if she wasn’t sneezing all the time

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

A Prayer and Ponder

First, a short prayer—

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change

Like the fact that Mulder and Scully will probably not be doing anything naked together in the X-Files sequel.

the courage to change the things I can,

Put “get work visa for Canada” on list of things to do so I can get added to the cast and/or crew of the X-Files sequel. I’m thinking anything to do with rubbing Duchovny’s shoulders would be an important and worthwhile job.

and the wisdom to not look at the spoiler folder at the Haven


I can’t explain the temptation to you, but I’m pretty sure this is what a crack addiction is like (well, you know, except for the fact that it isn’t illegal, doesn’t cost me money and probably wont kill me). All I really know is that I can’t even go over there anymore because if I see a hint of something like “set video” my hands start to shake with the temptation of it all. I must resist. I must…. Oooh, was that … no, no, no, I won't look.

Yep, pretty much proof that I need to get a life.

And now, a “ponder” on that “getting a life” topic.

The surest way to put fear in my heart is to tell me that you want to set me up with a guy who is just like me. It’s not that I’m not open to dating (open, open, open), but the “just like me” part is of grave concern.

Frankly, I wouldn’t want to date me. Seriously, I’ve been alone quite a while now. I’m used to doing what I want, when I want to do it. I’m a hermit. I avoid social interaction (and yet, I’m still totally open, open, open to dating—really open—people are in awe of my open-like qualities ;) ). I’m a workaholic. And let’s not forget that I resemble a weeble—an adorable weeble, but a weeble nonetheless.

So, I’m trying to picture a guy just like me. He’s hiding in his apartment. He’s getting ready to cry through another episode of American Idol (damn those heart warming stories) and then go to sleep because he’ll be up at dawn for work. Rinse. Repeat.

I would annoy me.

Honestly, guy-Kate and I will make the news because we’ll kill each other. I mean, we’ll wait until the commercials come on so as not to interrupt the show, but we’ll definitely kill each other.

Do you want that on your conscience?

You do?

Alrighty, bring him on. But if he tries to put on my Jimmy Choos, I’m out.


Monday, February 04, 2008

The Magic Age Is…

44. That’s right – the magic age for the most depressed people experiencing a mid-life crisis is 44. At least that’s what I got from this article:

Oh, good—something to look forward to, indeed.

Apparently, it is at this age where people have to admit that all of their aspirations for love and life aren’t going to come true, and that it’s time to readjust their expectations. Let’s face it—no one calls you precocious at 44. Remember when you were a teenager and you were absolutely sure you were meant for greatness? Oooh, so close.

According to this theory, it’s the time to figure out a way to accept where you are in life, while simultaneously raging at the heavens; demanding to know how you got there.

Well… that sounds like fun.

Maybe if I start to revise my expectations downward right now, 44 wont be so difficult. Of course, then I’m just likely to be even more depressed about my total lack of goals and aspirations.

Is there good news? Sure! The depression that hits at 44 lasts for years.


All I can say is, 43 better be a helluva good time.


Sunday, February 03, 2008

27 Dresses

*While I don’t think you can ever really spoil a romantic comedy, stop reading now if you don’t want to know the ending of the movie.

My friend LD and I went to go see “27 Dresses” not long ago. It was charming and Ed Burns proves the theory that men really can get better looking as they get older. Bastards. While I did enjoy the movie, it highlighted the romantic comedy axiom that I will now refer to as “#27”.

According to the rule of #27, Courtship lasts:

a) 1 year or less from the original meeting to the altar
b) 3 years from original meeting to the altar, but there was a period of separation
c) 5-8 years from original meeting, things look promising until he dumps you for someone else because he thinks you’re holding him back
d) 10 years from the original meeting and it never leads to the altar because prince waste-your-time decides he needs to find himself. In fact, you are so far from the altar that while you write a blog about your lousy love life years later, you will need to look up that word to figure out how to spell it.

Let’s just say I don’t know many people who fall into category “a”, and far too many who fall into categories “c” and “d”.

According to the rule of #27, finding the right man requires:

a) filling out a 27 page form and decades of coffee first dates
b) $100,000 in payments to a matchmaker
c) just being really open to it, and then he turns out to be James Marsden

Look, option “c” is a really nice, warm and fuzzy option in a very “The Secret” kind of world. But in my reality, more men approached me when I was in a relationship (and completely closed off to the idea) than during the single years. In my reality, James Marsden is never waiting with a shiny new blackberry and words of consolation and love. In my world, open means a whole lot of standing around and thinking “Where the hell is he?” If I took the leap onto that boat at the end of the movie—Mr. Right would have been standing on the dock and waving goodbye. Oh, and I would have broken my leg during the landing, obviously. It’s not that I’m bitter (which I am), but the “just be open to it” rule results in increased self-help book sales, not actual dates.

But just in case I’m wrong, I am throwing this out there to the universe:

I am open to exploring the concept and eventual practice of dating an employed man who showers. Thank you for your kind attention.

P.S. Universe, if he happens to look like David Duchovny (particularly during the Mulder years, please see me for specific episodes if you have any questions), George Clooney, Alex O’Loughlin or Jon Hamm, that would be fine, too.

Hey, it never hurts to ask.