Sunday, May 31, 2009



I know I should have learned my lesson with the whole George Clooney event fiasco. It was an important lesson—always read your junk mail because on occasion what looks like junk mail is actually an opportunity to stare glassy-eyed at someone dreamy… and then have bouncers remove you from the room because you’re making the talent uneasy. It’s every girl’s dream.

And I did, technically, learn that lesson. I did open the mail I got from Global Green USA. They were having their annual Millennium Awards. But I then made a thousand excuses to not go. It was a large donation. I would have been alone because I would have taken B to meet Leonardo (who was there, by the way), but she has a lot of things going on right now. All I could picture was me standing alone in the corner, nursing a single drink all night, not talking to anybody (but to myself in long, rambling muttered rants that would have scared the other donors) before the crushing weight of my folly took over, and I skittered out the door.

Yes, that is seriously the scenario I envisioned when I pictured myself at this event. So, I did what I always do—I put the invitation aside, and did my best Scarlett impression, “Fiddle Dee Dee, I’ll think about that tomorrow”, and never did. What I did not adequately picture was who would be there to entertain me while I hid in the corner behind a plant.

Please enjoy these pictures of David Duchovny at Global Green USA’s event last evening. The one I didn’t go to even though I had an invitation. The one that I could have gone to instead of watching the Cavs lose last night. The one that would have put me into a room with him rather than in an audience. The one that would have allowed me to approach him as an equal (or at least not as a crazed fan). The one that would have put me into proximity with a man who I actually have something to say to now (rather than all the other occasions where I just sort of stare at him blankly as the panic grows inside me, and then I run and hide when he says, “Hi”.)

Why do I do this? Why do I consistently shoot myself in the foot at every freakin’ opportunity? And maybe I wouldn’t have talked to David, but there were about 100,000 other very interesting, attractive, charitable people there (grant it, all of them probably had dates) who would have been very interesting to talk to—if for no other reason because we have upcoming charity events, and I’d like to get them involved. But NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. No, I couldn’t possibly do that. That would have been too easy (and by easy, I mean excruciatingly difficult, yet probably worth it).


I suck. And not in an interesting way that men like.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Mini: Archie Finally Pops the Question

It took 65 years, but Archie realized that dating two women for eternity was unlikely to work. He finally asked one of his long-time girlfriends to marry him.
65 years.

Well, in the face of that perseverance, it really doesn’t make the 10 years I spent with the EX seem all that momentous. I was clearly a slacker who should have held out a little longer.

But I’m wondering what you do if you are the one he didn’t choose? “Well, we dated for 65 years, but it just didn’t work out. He said we didn’t have enough in common for a long-term relationship.” How exactly do you start over after something like that? I mean, will her friends say things like “At least you never got married, so you don’t have to get a divorce.” Or maybe the old standby, “At least you never had kids” because that one definitely makes you feel better after wasting 65 years of your life.

Anyway, I won’t spoil it here, but if you are curious where Archie finally fell in the eternal “Betty” or “Veronica” debate, here you go:

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Adventure Dates

A male reader (shush, men do so read this blog… grant it, it’s usually by accident when they get a google alert for Gillian Anderson or the anal bleaching tag, but they do end up here) once sent me a link to an adventure dating package. Initially, I was confused. Honestly, my idea of adventure dating is speaking to a man in daylight after he’s accidentally doused me in Starbucks coffee (because why else would he be talking to me).

This was a bit more complicated.

Essentially, the first date involved ropes (I’m finding that’s a big element to all dating in Los Angeles), some carabiners and perhaps a harness. I’d have to rent these items, but I know some of you are now surreptitiously looking under the bed for your own. No judgments. [Oh, who am I kidding? I so judge.] You will then be rappelling down the side of a cliff-kind of thing (technical talk) into a cave or cavern type area. Presumably, you and your date are somehow spotting each other in this endeavor. Perhaps it’s a trust building exercise. Then you explore something.


I have trust issues and intestinal difficulty during times of stress. So, while to some people, this date would seem like an ideal way to get to know someone in a perfectly legitimate and safe way, this is what I hear:

Some strange man is going to come to your apartment. He’s going to tell you to get into his car, although you know better than to do that. He has ropes in his car. He menacingly tells you that those ropes are for you. He will then drive you to the desert without another soul in sight, throw you off a cliff-face, while you desperately cling to some twine that you hope holds your Häagen-Dazs enhanced weight. Then if you survive that, your reward is being trapped at the bottom of a crevice, with no cell signal, while the strange man who threw you down there, joins you. And there’s no bathroom.


But no.

Keep those suggestions coming, though.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Attention Spam Emailers

Presumably the point of sending out emails regarding penis enlargement is to make the enlargement process (or at least the result) sound a) possible and b) appealing. That has always been my assumption. What you should not do is make it sound scary.

Case in point, the subject line of the last spam I received: “Get deeper in her entrails”.



Does the word “entrails” sound in any way seductive to any of you? Because, frankly, it sounds more like helpful hints for serial killers than would-be Don Juans.

Maybe they are reaching out to soothsayers specializing on the reading of entrails to tell the future? Though, sadly, if they are reading your entrails, I’ve got a pretty good idea that your “future” is looking pretty damn finite.

The word brings to mind disembowelment. Grant it, I haven’t been on a date in a while, so maybe things have changed, but “Hey, baby, let me disembowel you” is not sexy. Also not sexy -- conversations like, “I just had a procedure that will allow me to pierce your colon”. Or am I wrong? Are you guys signing up for that? Because if you are, I am so not dating again.

Also, not to be picky, but your standard, every day guy/girl action doesn’t generally involve entrails being stimulated. So, is this supposed to be some sort clarion call to anal dwellers, or is this guy so damn big now that he’s tearing through everything in the way and going straight for your viscera? Again, I’m voting no. There is absolutely such a thing as “too big” and, ladies, we have found it.

We have got to put our collective foot down. We’ve allowed ourselves to be plucked, waxed, bleached and vaginally rejuvenated. I say, we draw the line in the sand at men who want to lance our intestines in order to feel more manly.

Who is with me?

Thursday, May 21, 2009

More On That

You’re thinking to yourself, “Why the hell is she on Twitter?” Or, “Yippee, we get to see endless scrolls of informative posts like, ‘Still not dating’ and ‘Really, still not dating’. These are valid concerns—concerns, I will ignore, of course.

Naturally, I think each and every one of you should be subjected to my profound thoughts as I have them. But since I don’t like people, and thus can’t have you actually around me, twitter is an excellent way to subject you to them without actually subjecting myself to real, social interaction. God bless technology.

But it’s also to help ease the torment of events like this past Saturday. I was invited to a wedding. Ooooh! I heard that. I heard you all go “Oh, oh” and “Glad it wasn’t me”. Being of (relatively) sound mind, single and over a certain age, my approach to wedding attendance has all the exuberance of someone contemplating their walk to the gallows. But had I been on twitter, I could have shared insightful messages like, “Only single girl at the table. Dancing has started. Must cut myself now.”

Oh, I joke a little. The wedding was lovely. The couple is perfect together. I even knew most of the people at my table, and had some fun (might have been champagne related, but I think the company was generally good). But with Twitter at my disposal, I could have looked busy when I was sitting alone rather than just… um… alone.

But the best news is I’m absolutely convinced that should I ever date again, Twitter is coming with me. I can’t see how sending endless updates to my followers could in any way damage a date. After all, I live to serve as a warning to others. Plus, I can ask for real time advice rather than waiting until after the date in order to endlessly rehash what went wrong with friends. I mean, what went right… of course.

I am poised for something. And sure, it’s possible that insanity is actually what is right around the corner rather than opportunity. Never fear. I’ll smuggle the iPhone into the rubber room with me to make sure you don’t miss the ranting.

Monday, May 18, 2009


For those of you who are inclined, I am now on twitter! I'm not sure how good I'll be at it, but I'm willing to give it a go. I imagine it will be somewhere between that first failed attempt at speaking to a guy at Starbucks and my continued failures to date George Clooney. So... good times!

This is me:

Wednesday, May 13, 2009


Damn it! Listen up, whores, stop ruining it for everybody else. I used to like kissing. I remember kissing. Ok, it’s a vague memory, but still I remember liking it. More than that, I think I was pretty good at it. But I don’t want to kiss somebody (after the appropriate 40 date waiting period) and have HPV and gonorrheal pharyngitis running through my mind.

Have you seen the movie “Demolition Man”? That’s where we are headed people. It’s very nearly sea shell and virtual-fondling city. There are many, many movies out there that I’d like to find coming true around me—this is not one of them.

Clearly, I long for a more refined time when all I had to wonder was, “Where did he pick up that move?” when a long-term boyfriend suddenly threw in a tongue sweep of my teeth into the mix after two years.

[Random side rant—what was up with that move? I’m sure there are people out there who are into that, but whenever that move is sprung on me, I feel like he’s trying out to be my dental hygienist. I don’t get how it’s sexy. And how are you supposed to respond exactly? There is no sensation on the front of my teeth, my head is snapping back because the guy is trying to shove his tongue into the sides of my mouth to complete the sweep, and the guy always look like they are supposed to get some sort of prize when they finally complete the maneuver. Unless I’m actually making out with a dentist, knock it off. /end random side rant]

But seriously, what more warning do people need before they start making the rampant sexually transmitted disease flow a real consideration? If there are actually open, swollen and oozing pustules on his face and penis, would that do it? Sigh. Probably not.

How do you use those sea shells?

Wednesday, May 06, 2009


The EX and I never fought. Or rather, we fought all the time, but did it in such a refined and appropriate manner that even people in the same room would have been uncertain as to the nature of our interaction. We made passive-aggressive behavior our bitch, and I’m proud to say I can still pick up a fight (or as we liked to call it “discussion”) mid-thought 10 years after the fact. I am skilled. I am woman. Hear me roar.

But the closest thing to a real fight (you know, one other people would actually recognize) we ever had was over an address book. An address book. The entire thing left me convinced that civilization will doom itself not by succumbing to the coming plague (although I plan to use that as an excuse to have Fridays off this summer), but because a massive war will break out over the following exchange:

Ex: I’ve asked you not to do that.

Me: No you didn’t. Had you asked me not to do that before we would have had this fight then.

The scenario seems relatively harmless, doesn’t it? Doesn’t sound like something that would house seven years of resentment in it. Oh, but you aren’t as skilled at repressed disappointment and failed expectations as we were. Don’t fret. Few people are.

How did it start?

The EX and I were going about our business. It was a normal evening. We both had long days at work. I went into his office to call a mutual friend about seeing a movie that weekend. I couldn’t remember her phone number off the top of my head, so I opened his address book to find it. I called, left a message as she was not at home, and left the office to get ready for bed.

Upon entering the bedroom, The EX was pulling down covers and tossing pillows. It wasn’t that he was being particularly violent with the innocent bedding—he wasn’t. But gone was his usual flair for elegant movement. The short jerky motions were code for, “I’m displeased, but I will go to bed harboring this resentment rather than sullying a perfectly good snit with actual discourse.” Well, too bad. So, I pushed and was rewarded with, “I’ve asked you not to use my address book without my permission”. Which I followed quickly with the rejoinder outlined above. And then there was silence. And I left the room.

I know, those of you from more “yelling” and “throwing” backgrounds are thinking, “That’s it? That was the big fight?” It was huge for us because there was direct confrontation for at least 10 seconds. But in reality, the actual fight lasted for days. I couldn’t begin to understand this boundary of his. So, I did what any other sane woman would do in this situation—I beat the issue to death and then shot it.

Naturally, I started with suspicion. Though he had never given me reason to believe that he would cheat, I started wondering what it was in the address book that he didn’t want me to see because my brain could not even begin to believe that it was as simple as a personal space issue. Perhaps in reality he had stuck a receipt for a lovely future gift in the address book and didn’t want to spoil the surprise. I’ll tell you right now, at the time, that possibility didn’t even begin to cross my mind. So, confrontation number two occurred. He became defensive, which I immediately took as an admission of guilt—even though any rational person would actually become defensive when confronted with that sort of subtle questioning. And by subtle, I mean, “What was in there you didn’t want me to see?” Yeah, yeah. I’ve since looked up the definition of subtle, thanks.

He tried to explain to me that the address book was personal-- as though this completely reasonable yet totally inadequate explanation should have been the end of it. I suggested that we had experienced quite a number of very personal things in the previous seven years and that looking up the phone number of a mutual friend wasn’t one of them. Prompting the following:
Me: I let you into my body. I think you can let me into your address
EX: But that’s just sex.

And then my head exploded with the force of global, thermo-nuclear war.

Gentleman, if any of you read this blog, please understand that the “But that’s just sex” statement presented to your girlfriend of seven years is potentially more lethal than plutonium. Try to realize that before you open your mouth and insert your size 13s.

On the upside, it was the end of the fight. On the downside, it was probably one of the biggest signals that while I was on the “soul mate” train (as opposed to Soul Train) headed north, the relationship itself was on an express south. Naturally, it took another three years for me to realize that I didn’t even have a ticket for the trip.

How had we gone from the forever exchanges to “frankly, we’re not close enough for you to get use my address book”? And maybe it was just me. Maybe I just didn’t understand that he needed a boundary with the person he lived with, and he had chosen that one. But, obviously, it still remains with me years after the fact. I suppose my brain is still trying to work it out so that if I do engage in interpersonal communications ever again, I’ll see the signs faster. Or maybe I’m just thinking about it because I haven’t transferred all my contact information into my new phone.

Kate, making grudge-holding an art form for the new millennium.