Thursday, August 27, 2009

Rejected by a Survey

Look, I don't ask for much.

Ok, that's not true. I ask for a lot, but I don't get it, and then I pretend that I'm fine with that. But still, I'm not asking George Clooney to stop dating models for me. I'm just maybe thinking that at some point, I'd like to meet a man with whom I can have semi-interesting conversation. It doesn't even have to be often. I'm an independent woman—I'm not looking for a caregiver, a father figure or a bank roll. But there is a romantic streak deeply hidden inside me (deeply, deeply, deeply hidden). So, when I got a pop-up from another friend on Facebook that had the magic words "soulmate" and "survey" during a long morning at work, I thought, "Why not?"

So, I took the survey called "When will you meet your soulmate?"

I thought it was a valid question since I feel like I've been alive a while now, and that soulmate should be popping up any day now. Also, a girl has to be ready, and I've been putting off getting my roots done, have some upcoming charity events and work keeps threatening to bring me back to New York. I thought for planning purposes alone, I should check to see what soulmate's schedule looks like.

Naturally, I opened the survey and began at the beginning.

Question 1.

Numero uno.

It was just staring me in the face: "When do you want to get married?" Simple enough question—clearly designed by children who still have hope that they have any control over that sort of thing, but a simple enough question. Unfortunately, it was also a question I couldn't answer. You see, the survey had a multiple choice option with a set of age spans. The problem? The oldest age span on the survey was 5 years YOUNGER than I already am. In essence, it was telling me that someone as aged as I am, should have either met the man, or I never actually had shot at meeting him. Either way, I am out of luck. Thanks for playing.



Sunday, August 23, 2009


Apparently, I'm incapable of having hobbies. If I enjoy something, I tend to pursue it, put my protestant work ethic to the test (despite not being protestant), and suddenly it's a wildly consuming semi-profession.

Don't believe me?

In college, I decided to take a class in dance in order to fulfill my fine arts credit requirement because I always did it during my work in theater, but never really trained. When given the chance to pursue it for a single class my freshman year, it should have taken up exactly 3 periods plus lab. Instead, after the first semester, I was dancing 6 hours a day and became part of the company. And no, I wasn't a dance major. I just spent as much time in rehearsals as I did in my Econ classes.

I tried to pick up dancing again when I was working in New York to get back into shape. I changed my hours in the city, so that I could make classes that I had—nearly every night. Before I left, I was dancing through auditions for everything from commercials to Broadway (which didn't go well, but was still awesome!).

I started dancing in LA, again to stay in shape, and started performing here despite having rehearsals that meant me not getting home until after 11pm—not late for normal people, but I'm up at 5am, so it wasn't the brightest move.

A friend asked me to help out on his film project—I became a producer (while still maintaining my normal day job).

You might have noticed that I enjoy a little show known as "The X-Files". For most people when they enjoy a TV show, I think that means kicking back and watching it regularly. For me it meant doing extra work on the show. For me it meant when the new movie was pending release, I went out to interview fans, editing videos and blog posting. It means I won't go to an event without a camera now because I know I'll want to "report" on the event. It means wanting to work with the people involved—and increasingly finding ways to do that.

I'm into charity work. Now what time I have left on weekends and evenings is spent on upcoming events, auctions, fundraisers, etc. Oh, and we're in the midst of incorporating. So, add another company to my list of "hobbies".

I started writing a blog to quickly deal with an emotional experience so I could process and move on. Three years later, I'm still writing with the very real possibility of turning it into a series and a book.

Maybe it's the control freak in me—I can't just enjoy an experience without it becoming another profession.

All I can say is-- it's a good thing I'm not having sex.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

In Just Over a Month

In just over a month (ok, a month and a week), Californication returns. Finally. So, naturally, when I'm faced with a blank blog, no inspiration and a delightful email from a new reader who was also at the panel (small world!), I thought to myself, "Self, you should post more stuff from that Californication panel that the Los Angeles Times hosted for The Envelope Series".

The first clip features Pamela Adlon hilariously recounting her take on her sex scenes in Showtime's Californication. Also, I'm pretty sure this is the first time I've heard a panel discussion involving the words, "Horse's penis". So, there's that.

Pamela Adlon Discusses Sex Scenes on Californication from Kate Dating on Vimeo.

In the second video, David Duchovny discusses his approach to playing Hank Moody, and his concerns about keeping Hank a sympathetic character.

David Duchovny Talks About Keeping Hank Moody Sympathetic from Kate Dating on Vimeo.

Enjoy! Also, as you've noticed, emails inspire me to write (or post videos). So, if you want to inspire a blog, feel free to write to me at

Monday, August 17, 2009

Too Long

It is possible that I've been in LA for too long.

Sex Tape Cynicism

When I read on Starpulse ( that a sex tape was leaked involving Eric Dane and his wife (and some random woman), my first thought was not, "How shocking!" or even, "He's hot!" Nope, my reaction was "which one of them has a movie coming out?" Seriously, I just don't think the new season of Gray's Anatomy is sex-tape-leak worthy, so one of them has got to a movie coming out. Because otherwise, this is just stupid—I mean how difficult is it to keep track of your sex tapes? They don't tend to wander off on their own. Are you bringing them to parties because someone said they were showing home movies of their vacation, and you wanted to share, too? Because otherwise, they shouldn't be leaving the house. Also, you probably shouldn't mark them "Sex Tape, Please Don't Steal This and Leak It To The Press". Not only does that take up way too much room on the DVD label (and you like to keep those things pithy and neat), but it sort of seems like taunting—particularly unwise if you gave your assistant a terrible Christmas bonus.

Update: I've heard now that it's just a "naked" tape and not a sex tape. Well, sure. Who hasn't done that? That's the first thing I do when friends come over-- the clothes come off, and I grab that camera. Or, no.

Update2: Now it appears that he's not even naked. It's just the, seemingly stoned, women in bathtub. The third party insists that her computer hard-drive was stolen by singer Mindy McCready during some celebrity rehab stint after a fight. Folks, I could not make this shit up.

Odds Making

Also on Starpulse today, I learned that Robin Wright Penn is once again just saying "no" to Sean ( This is a sad thing, though not really surprising given the back and forth and back and forth and…. Still, yelling out, "Who had August in the divorce pool?" really isn't appropriate.


The lack of actual weather in LA has solidified my love for weather porn. I should have gone into producing weather specials. I'm fascinated with weather. I see really only one problem: I don't really like to be in weather. So, I'd have to send other people out to do the filming because tornadoes terrify me. Also, hurricanes look like they are not quite so delightful to wander in, despite how engrossing they are on TV. Oooh, also, I hate snow unless I'm inside wrapped in a blankie with the heat flowing. Ok, so technically, I should be producing special weather programming from my couch featuring Rob Marciano. Or Reynolds Wolf. Or… well, any boy with a degree in meteorology who looks good wet while trying to hold onto his baseball cap, microphone and pants all at the same time. [Note: Chloe and I decided today that Reynolds Wolf sounds like a character's name on a soap opera or Harlequin romance. He is, in fact, a delightful and intelligent man with no signs of flowing, Fabio-like locks.] Or maybe I could just write weather related novels. @Toonses88 on twitter suggested, "The night was sultry" so I'm practically writing it already. No, I'm not desperately looking for ways to do something more interesting with my life. What makes you say that?

Radar Love

Maybe not so much radar love, but missives promising me astrologically sound love caught my attention. Clearly, my only problem has been that I've been gazing at men with the wrong astrological signs. It's not that I don't talk to them, they don't talk to me, or the hiding in the apartment thing. No, the universe has been trying to send me signs. Being appropriately beaten down by the Los Angeles "what-the-hell-is-dating-oh-you-mean-sex-after-more-than-the-first-hour-of-acquaintance-but-that's-so-1950" social scene, I took a gander. Yeah. This is also not about dating. This is about finding someone erotically compatible (a word I misspelled twice, by the way). Still, for all of you who are now curious:

According to this, I have an "enthusiasm for all things carnal".

Yeah. I haven't stopped laughing either.

Friday, August 07, 2009

New Rules

I realize this means I'm old, but if you call me, and don't leave a message, in my world that means that you didn't call me. Seriously, for like 15 days I won't know you called, until I'm scrolling through the call log looking for another number because I'm too lazy to go into contacts. It is only then, by the random chance of where your once-upon-a-time call landed, that I will know that you called. At that point, I might wonder why you called. Then I will dismiss it along the lines of "if it was important, he/she/it would have left a message", and I will keep scrolling. I will not call you back. Even if you are David Tennant (my new best friend), I will not call you back. Because as my new best friend, you should know that you must leave a message even though you kid me that the truly "with it" peeps don't leave messages. Clooney, you have been warned.

[Plus, if I found out that I missed George's call 10 days earlier, it would probably take another month just to figure out what to wear when I called him back. No, seriously—these things are important. What if he wanted to pop over to make sure that my ignoring him for weeks was just happenstance and not because I'm annoyed that he seemingly skipped over me in the dating rotation in favor of new girlfriend #1452? A girl has to be prepared.]


P.S. If you want to hear the David Tennant story, part I is up here with part 2 to follow soon (so I'm told):


Tuesday, August 04, 2009

Things to Do With Glue

I posted this link up on twitter the other day:

As I said on twitter, obviously this is wrong. This is not appropriate (:::chuckle::::) conflict resolution. So, before anyone tries to bring forth a lawsuit, I am in no way advocating this kind of perfectly executed retribution. It's just… ahem… wrong. No two ways about it. Krazy gluing a cheater's private bits together is not the answer. Well, actually it is an answer, just perhaps not the most mature one.

Regardless, as I was taking the article to be laminated, I re-read it. And then I stumbled on this little part: "The three women, who intricately planned the hotel beatdown, also physically attacked the three-timer and demanded to know which woman he loved most."

Ooooh. Ladies, you were so close. Here's a tip: if he's screwing all three of you, the answer is D) none of the above. The only person he loves in this equation is himself. But thanks for playing. And really, which one of you was still hoping that he'd pick you? Despite the overwhelming evidence of his ass-hattery, which one of you would still have believed him? Because you know he was weighing his odds. Maybe one of you is kind of bruiser, so if he picked you, he might have hoped that you would have turned on the other two?

Seriously, ladies, you can't embrace your inner Heather in one more-embarrassing-than-deadly-Drano moment and still somehow hope for a picket fence ending. So, pick up the damn red bow and walk out of the school… um… hotel room and face the reality (and perhaps some jail time because I'm pretty sure low-life is going to get you all locked up for assault—may you get an all female jury).

Moral of this story? It's just all bad.

Kate, who has a spinning moral compass these days

Saturday, August 01, 2009

Killer Bikini Waxes From Outer Space

I thought that title might get your attention.

I've never been shy about expressing which side I'm on in the war of the pubic hairs. While I applaud some basic caretaking, I'm just not down with visually reducing me to a pre-pubescent girl. I'm a woman. If you can't get turned on by me unless I look like a 9 year old then I'm out (also, probably calling the police and leaving an anonymous tip, but that's another story).

I'm not going to lie—part of my reticence regarding the rip-it-all-out-by-the-root-and-smile approach is my naturally prudish demeanor… and the descriptions of what some of you have gone through in order to get that ready for XXX close-up. [By the way, congratulations for surviving the decision to have hot wax spackled all over the southern zone.] For instance, I've got to know you pretty darn well to be happy about a command to get on all fours and shove my ass in your face. I know. I know. I'm ridiculous. But that's just me.

On the upside, the person working the anal/pubic tweezers does possibly have a worse job than I have. In fact, when I'm at work complaining about how dissatisfied I am with my job, I think to myself, "Well, at least I'm not tweezing someone's ingrown pubic hair right now." The worst days, of course, are the days where this little mantra doesn't work.

However, regardless of my own natural reluctance in these matters, I never once seriously thought that a bikini wax could kill me—you know, unless the term "died of embarrassment" turned out to be literal. But this article is something for you all to keep in mind the next time you let someone drip hot wax south of the border.

Please consider this my PSA of the month. Stay safe out there.