Maybe It's Me

http://www.cnn.com/2008/US/02/29/ricin.hotel/index.html

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!”

katedating@yahoo.com
cafepress.com/katedating

Welcome, A Plug and Why

Welcome
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.

Plug
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 Amazon.com. Definitely check it out if you are looking for a new read.

Why
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.

Why?

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.

Why?

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

Kate
katedating@yahoo.com
http://www.cafepress.com/katedating

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.




Kate
katedating@yahoo.com

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: http://weeklycomicbookreview.com/2008/02/24/x-files-2-wondercon-08-panel/

Also, if you don’t mind spoilers, you check out these:
http://www.iesb.net/index.php?option=com_seyret&Itemid=227&task=videodirectlink&id=737
http://www.iesb.net/index.php?option=com_seyret&Itemid=227&task=videodirectlink&id=739
http://www.iesb.net/index.php?option=com_seyret&Itemid=227&task=videodirectlink&id=738


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.

Huh.

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

katedating@yahoo.com

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.

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 http://katedating.blogspot.com (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.

Kate

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!

Time Magazine

God bless Time Magazine.

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

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
www.cafepress.com/katedating
katedating.blogspot.com

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.

Kate

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

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?

Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating
katedating.blogspot.com

“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: http://www2.oprah.com/index.jhtml

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

www.cafepress.com/katedating

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

(http://community.idealistshaven.com/forums/index.php?s=b5211d5571a146b33b699628a05eb419)

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.

Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating

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:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=510943&in_page_id=1770

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.

Excellent.

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

Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating

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.

Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating

Quick Technicals

Just some quick reminders:

If you want an automatic notice that this blog has updated at the blogspot location, just send an email to katedating@yahoo.com with the email address you'd like to receive the update notice.

Also, the t-shirts, tote bags and hats for "LA, Where Dating Comes to Die" are all still available at www.cafepress.com/katedating. I'm going to be changing some of the designs, but for now you can still shop these :) I think they make awesome Valentine's Day gifts. Nothing says "being single on Valentine's Day sucks" like this particular design. Enjoy!

The Shape of Things to Come

Remember when you were a kid and things like cartwheels and handstands were just tricks you whipped out as the mood struck you? I distinctly remember using my bed as a vault—I had this completely inspired flip all worked out (perhaps if I had kept those adventurous bed skills going, I would have had more relationship success).

Well, yesterday, for no particular reason I thought, “hmmm, wonder if I can still do a handstand?”

Yeah. I wont leave you in suspense—the answer is no.

In my haste to recapture my more athletic youth, I forgot the main component of the handstand: the kick-up. Guess what the kick-up requires? Hamstrings that aren’t so tight that they could cut glass (yeah, I know that analogy doesn’t quite work, but you know what I mean. Work with me.).

So, picture me—short, frazzled, elderly, stressed out from a work-life that is steadily consuming every minute of my life. I was completely focused; right down to the weird squint and lip-biting thing I do.

All I had to do was reach down and kick… and kick… and arghhhhhhhhhhhh. Not only did I get only half way up, but I’m pretty sure I took out the downstairs neighbor’s ceiling when I fell. My bad. So, in addition to a severely pulled right hamstring, I knew I was going to have a nasty bruise on my right hip.

Logic would dictate that this experiment had come to a close while I hobbled to my desk to find the address of the local urgent care center.

Ha! Only amateurs give up when every sign in the universe points to failure. After all, I spent years (and year and years and years and years) believing that The Ex and I would live happily ever after. Subtle hints like barely being able to walk would not deter me.

No! It just meant I had to lead with the other leg. Why shred one hamstring when you can trash both of them?

This time, this time it would work! I just needed a better wind up. Clearly, it was my preparation that was a failure and not me. Everybody knows that if something doesn’t work the first time, all you have to do is apply greater force, and everything will be fine.

Well, everything would have been fine…you know, if it weren’t for the fact that I was doing this in my living room; a living room full of furniture.

I think all the energy, angst and ire that fill my work days had built themselves up and were just looking for a way to express themselves. I built up so much forward momentum that Mary Lou Retton will be calling any day now for pointers.

All that momentum translated into a world class half way handstand… mostly. One leg definitely got up. The other leg—not so much. It did, however, make contact with the side table, completely knocking off the picture frames, the box of change and a couple of candles. I suppose I should be thankful that the candles weren’t lit.

Note to self:

1) Don’t do gymnastics in the living room amidst furniture without stretching at least once in the year preceding the attempt.
2) Don’t do gymnastics after having a lousy week at work, particularly if it is 9:30 on a Friday night, and the gymnastics are serving as a break from finishing a presentation.
3) Get life.

Kate, limping in LA
www.cafepress.com/katedating
katedating.blogspot.com

Suspect Crush

Another Saturday night has come and gone, and because I love the night life (I’ve got to boogie), I spent it trying to upgrade my desktop computer. Sure, some people have told me to just throw out my computer—toss it aside after years of faithful companionship to find a sleeker, faster, sexier model. But that sounds so… male.

Instead, I’ve decided to treat it to an upgrade. This is, in part, because I’ve discovered that I can convert my existing DVDs to iPod format—all I need is more space. I’m putting in a shiny new hard drive, and I’m upgrading my USB ports. But most importantly, I’m working through our problems. I’m not just leaving it after years and years with some lame “we don’t have enough in common for a long-term relationship” line. No! I’m saying, “I’m so grateful for the time we’ve had together, and I want to work at it to make our relationship stronger”.

This decision to embrace computer therapy led me to Best Buy last night—and to what may be an entirely inappropriate crush on my Geek Squad agent.

I know that there is some sort of ethical (schmethical) code about a therapist getting involved with his/her patients. But technically, I’m not the patient here. As long as the Geek Squad guy doesn’t get involved with my computer, we should be in the clear. Although he is rooting around in the insides of my computer right now, so I’m not sure how much more intimate he can get with it. Hmmmm.

It occurs to me that I almost have to date this guy—not just because he’s handy with computers, although that is obviously something that would be useful down the road. No, I think it’s a necessity because once a guy has seen your personal hard drive, and what it contains, there really aren’t too many more secrets to be shared. It’s pretty much date him, or have him killed. Of course, I realized this after I turned over the computer, and he hooked it up to a big monitor to make sure it was fully functional before working on it.

There is nothing like that sudden “oh, oh, I wonder what is on there” feeling when it is already too late to do anything about it. Luckily, I’m 90% sure that I’ve deleted the naked David Duchovny photos. Sadly, I don’t have any naked George Clooney photos to delete (thankfully, I do have Solaris, though). It’s not like there is porn on the computer, although I suppose some of that fanfiction might count (although it’s literature, really… no, really, really!). It’s more a—wow, if he checks out iTunes, I’m never getting a date.

The Geek Squad agent was quite cute, but he had a touch of rebel—perhaps hipster in him. Normally, I shy away from this kind of guy. I’m old school; I don’t want to have to fight with my boyfriend over which of us gets to wear the little silver hoop earrings. But he was cute enough to overlook this potential pitfall.

I’d seen enough episodes of “Chuck” to know that there was a chance that my agent could be adorable with a mysterious side. But the show also led me astray—Chuck looks like he’s in his late 20’s at least. My hipster is quite possibly 22ish. Eeeek!!

And right now the crush, which is suspect from its inception because of his near infancy, isn’t thinking, “hey, she was sort of cute for an old, clueless broad”. Instead, he’s thinking, “Manilow?”

I can only hope he doesn’t happen upon my scans of my junior and high school photos. They weren’t good years for me, as no one had yet suggested curling iron restraint.

Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating

The Hits Keep Coming

I found a really nice distraction in my elevator at work last week. He is tall. He has brownish hair and just enough geek in him to make me think wistfully of tweed jackets and profound discourse over bottles of wine.

We didn’t have stunning interaction. I held the elevator for him (one of my best moves, I think). He said “thank you”. I said “of course, I’ll marry you”. Oh, wait, no, that was just in the thought bubble above my head. Live action Kate responded with “Hi”. I know, way to sell it.

Then we stood there. We smiled. We looked at the fascinating floor numbers scroll. I may have contemplated accidentally pulling the emergency stop. Alas, before I could do anything the elevator got to his floor. Why? Why? Why does the universe hate me so much as to put this guy on the 10th floor instead of the 20th?

Doors started to slide open. The moment had come. He turned to me and said “have a nice day” in a way that clearly meant “I’ve already spoken to your father, I have the engagement ring in my pocket, and we’re eloping to Italy right now.” No, I don’t think I was reading into it, at all. Why?

I, naturally, responded with something eloquent and heartfelt. It was sort of a combination of “thank you” and “you, too”—which pretty much came out as “thanktoothmpfpst” as the door slid shut, again. Yep, I was just incoherent enough to give the impression of a quality education and a life as one of the great communicators.

Well, I was smitten enough to not to let this kind of encounter go as a chance unintelligible meeting of strangers. I set my friends on the task of figuring out who this lovely man was, while secretly praying that he wasn’t actually as young as he looked.

Why didn’t I pursue this on my own? Are you kidding? Didn’t you read how I handled our initial points of contact? I needed skilled women, who might not be adverse to a little deviousness to get the job done. I needed a team. Luckily, I have such a team, and they went to work.

They got his company name. We figured out that a little careful stalk… uh… strolling close to the parking garage benches at the right time in the morning would probably do the trick. Someone suggested wearing the Jimmy Choo boots to get his attention. I did briefly think about tripping him with the boots. But I had to veto the idea because they might get scuffed. You don’t scuff the Choo’s.

Sounds foolproof, right?

Right. If the universe didn’t hate me, it would have been. Since we all know the universe has a not so secret plot to destroy me, I should have seen this coming.

Married? 20? Gay? All of these things I could have dealt with in appropriate ways.

Guess what I didn’t anticipate? The strike. I didn’t anticipate that his company would lay off the majority of their workforce the day after I met him. So, instead of elevator rides fraught with passionate looks and possible multi-syllable exchanges, he got a pink slip.

Seriously, universe, you don’t think this was a little much?

I’m just saying.

Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating

Thoughts on a Monday

The Lives of Others

My friends definitely have more interesting lives than I do. I recognize that this fact in and of itself is not remarkable. You probably could have guessed this all by yourselves. But it wasn’t until this weekend that I realized exactly how much more interesting.

For instance, on Saturday, I went with a friend to see “Juno” (great--- loved it!). I tried to clean (failed miserably). I caught some football. Overall, it was a pretty raucous day in Kate-ville.

And then I get this email from my friend, PT:

“right now I'm sitting in class sculpting genitalia out of PlayDoh.”

Huh. Well, that puts my Saturday to shame. In fact, it puts most of my days to shame.

I’ve often contemplated taking a class, but who knew a degree in psychology was where the action was? I was happy to know that her model of male genitalia was used as an example for the rest of the class.

Since I had to think twice about the spelling of genitalia, I think it’s safe to say that I would not be winning this particular honor. I’m more likely to be looking at my classmate’s project and saying things like “Seriously?” or “Stop, you’re giving me nightmares”.



The Golden Globes

Many people have asked me my opinion about the WGA strike. One of these days I’ll start the rant, and you will wish I shut up. But for the moment, we need to examine one very important fact: the strike ruined my chance for a dream night. David Duchovny, George Clooney and Jon Hamm were all nominated. Under normal circumstances, they all could have been at the Beverly Hilton last night. Add to that fact that the Globes loves to invite new stars of shows, and we could have added an Alex O’Loughlin sighting.

Four hot men. One room. All wearing tuxes.

But nooooooooooooooooooooooo. Sure, sure, people are out of work, but let’s keep our eyes on the real tragedy here. We missed out on seeing the perfect storm of gorgeous, talented men, and that is just unacceptable. Haven’t we suffered enough? No one should have to miss out on the delectable David Duchovny accepting his best actor award for Californication (much deserved as he plays wicked the way very few people can).

I’m trying to console myself with ice cream and the fact that I’ve seen three of the four in the post-Globes coverage.

Seriously, folks, let’s get this strike settled before another hot man and a tux are torn apart—and not in a good way.

Kate

www.cafepress.com/katedating

The Routine

Daring and adventurous are rarely words associated with me these days. Sure, once upon a time, you may have found me hitchhiking in the Soviet Union, but these days my view of adventure is checking to see if there is a new episode of “Moonlight” on TV, or looking for change in my pockets (come on big money). But every once in a while…

I believe I expressed my completely rational loathing (LA LA LA Loathing, unadulterated loathing; For your face; Your voice; Your clothing; Let's just say - I loathe it all…) of New Year’s Eve festivities. However, that is not to say that I do not perform certain rituals to mark the passage of yet another year.

3:30pm
I like to start the evening off with a round of personal recriminations. My favorites involve “How could I?” and “Why didn’t I?” Feel free to incorporate your own. This can take quite a while, so I like to be prepared to take several breaks involving ice cream.

6:00pm
From here, I like to smoothly transition into some good, old-school self-pity. I have to start this early because otherwise by the time I get around to the “why God, why” business, I’ll have missed the new year –

9:00pm
– which starts at 9:00:01pm. The simple reality is that watching a re-run of the ball dropping in New York at midnight in Los Angeles is not inspiring enough to keep my enormous bum out of bed. I usually celebrate with the east coast by doing the count down, marveling at the insanity of anyone willing standing in the cold for hours, and then turning out the light.

9:05pm
Yawn. Happy New Y… zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

It’s not that I don’t mix it up. Occasionally, I’ll alter the kind of ice cream. One particularly wild year, I distinctly remember chips and salsa. These are time-honored traditions not to be discarded lightly—which makes my decision this year unanticipated.

I went out.

It was dark, and I left my apartment. I willfully engaged in frivolity in the Hollywood Hills. I am living the dream. I expect TMZ to be calling for a statement any moment now. Please express your appreciation and amazement by sending cash (large bills only) or sizeable checks to the “Help Pay Off The Jimmy Choo Stiletto Boots That I Wore to This Party” fund.

And no, it does not matter that I was only there for 45 minutes. The only thing that matters is that I actually had fun—nice people, beautiful view, shocked hosts and still home and asleep by 10:30. It’s not the quantity of partying, but the quality of partying that counts.

(No, really, the party was great and hosted by dear friends who took my initial RSVP of “Hell no, I’m not coming to a New Year’s Eve party” in the loving way it was intended. And yes—45 minutes.)

Maybe next year, I might stay 52 minutes (no promises). Obviously, now everything is up in the air. You have to re-examine all your pre-conceived notions about me. I am unpredictability personified.

And now I have to rest from all the excitement.

Kate
(The envy of It girls everywhere—provided they are over 50 and institutionalized)

Almost

It occurs to me that my love life has much in common with Cleveland sports teams. I’m always just one step away from victory before total annihilation.

The Browns were just eliminated from the playoffs. They had good intentions, but when it came down to execution, they couldn’t make it happen for themselves. They had to rely on another’s victory—and that team didn’t come through. I also have had good intentions all year long to achieve victory (ie a date with some sort of romantic promise, semi-romantic promise, any promise at all, maybe something involving a man who showers, whatever), only to fail in my execution at the last minute. I could rely on men to actually speak to me, or nod in my direction, but much like the Colts tonight—they aren’t coming through in the clutch (not that I want to be clutched… at least not right away).

My previous endeavors look more like the seasons for the Indians or Cavs this past year. There were many small victories in my past relationship and the season was long, but in the end, I couldn’t bring the title home any more than the teams could.

What worries me is it’s been a great, long while since any of the Cleveland teams have brought the trophy home. Am I like the Cleveland Browns who, unless I’m mistaken, have never even played in the Super Bowl? Or am I more like the Indians who just haven’t won the World Series since 1948?

I sincerely hope that in 2008 I will be in the big game, making some big plays, or at least getting a chance to carry the ball (ew, wait, no). In the meantime, I guess I’ll just have to look upon my love life the way many a fan looks at the Cleveland teams. There’s always next year. This could be the big one…. You know, unless it’s not… again.

Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating

New Year's Eve

It should surprise no one that I loathe New Year’s Eve.

I know what you are thinking, “it’s because you hate happy people”. And that’s obviously true. I mean, who doesn’t? Alas, that’s not the main reason.

I was once like you. I had hope for the future and something resembling a positive outlook. But then I turned 4 and knocked that off. The simple truth is, New Year’s Eve, or more specifically the festivities that are de rigueur, have nearly always been disastrous for me.

Think I’m kidding?

The best New Year’s Eve I can remember involved tear gas and a near stampede. That’s right. When I think of my best New Year’s Eve experience I think about an evening that ended with my eyes uncontrollably tearing with the air being sucked from my lungs while I tried to run away from a crowded square full of people in Germany. Ah, good times.

(By the way, belated kudos to the person who grabbed me and pulled me into that alley, as I was clueless to what had happened—a million warm and fuzzy thoughts for keeping me from getting trampled. It will make a great ending to the movie of my life if you turn out to be George Clooney, and I just couldn’t make out who you were through the tearing and wheezing).

I can’t even come up with a good second place. Is it the one that occurred two days before the Ex indicated that it was time to think about where our relationship was going (well, sure, because the previous decade obviously hadn’t provided any time for reflection)? Or was it the one when I was 17 and my date got too drunk to drive, but insisted on trying to anyway? I tried to get his keys, and he thought he’d be a smart-ass and dropped his keys down his pants. Naturally, I kneed him in the balls. Amazing how quickly your date sobers up when keys get embedded into his scrotum. Needless to say, my parents picked me up from the party, and “key-balls-boy” and I were not Meant-2-B-4-ever.

Despite this abhorrence of all things festive on Monday night, I am an absolute nut about resolutions. I can’t get enough of them. Just ask my friends—more and more of them have been sucked into my web of insanity. And there is still time to get them finished (yep, I’m looking at you LT). It’s oddly fitting for me. When most people are looking forward to champagne and finery, I’m looking forward to putting together a to do list for the coming year.

For whatever reason, the group of us has had some ripping good success at these things—and they have included some incredibly specific goals, too. For instance, “I want my first SAG job to be as an FBI agent on the series finale of The X-Files” was one of the first ones made in the group. Sure enough… Perhaps it’s something about sharing them with a group that keeps us accountable, or putting it out into the universe has actually been helpful (but let’s face it, I’ve put my prurient George Clooney desires and the “winning the lottery” yearning into the universe to no avail).

Whatever it is, I’m compelled to keep going. After all, that date with George and a publishing deal is clearly only one or two more resolutions away.

Kate

www.cafepress.com/katedating

Then Again...

Then again…

Morally wrong is less morally wrong at a 30% discount. In fact, it is a direct correlation. The purchase of those boots is 30% less morally wrong—which is practically half. And half is 50/50 on the whole right/wrong scale-- which means half the time it’s totally the right the thing to do.

Justification, kneel to your master.

MWHAA HAAA HAAAA

Kate

Bathrobe Guy

Last week’s episode of Samantha Who? was all about going on a date when you have amnesia and can’t relate fun life facts to your date (or any facts, at all). I grabbed a pad of paper and a pen because while I don’t technically have amnesia, I do have dating amnesia—as in, it’s been so long, I don’t remember how to do it.

All I can say is, I hope I have Samantha’s luck.

Not only did she not have to leave her house (Ha!), but her mother set her up with the highly delectable Eddie Cibrian. Sure, that’s the way it works in real life, too. I mean, I can’t tell you how many times people have told me to stay at home and then sent me smart, funny, hot men to entertain me. Finally, I just had to tell them to stop. My social calendar was just too full. You know how it is.

Yeah, my reality seems determined to point me more in the direction of people like “helmet man” and “bathrobe guy”.

Who is “bathrobe guy”?

“Bathrobe guy” is a gentleman I encountered on my way home from work. And when I say encountered, I mean almost killed—a small point, really. Completely his fault—obviously. If you are parked on a narrow street full of traffic, don’t fling your door wide open. And if you do that, don’t keep the door wide open while leaning into the car with your leg sticking out in the air for balance and not expect to get hit.

On the upside, if you do engage in risky parking-in-LA behavior, make sure you do it wearing something unconventional, such as reflective clothing, a feather boa, or, as was the case with this dreamboat, pajamas and a bathrobe.

Did I mention that it was about 3:30 in the afternoon?

Yeah, I don’t know, I tend to get dressed before driving around the neighborhood in the afternoon. Then again, I am really old fashioned—not really a risk taker. I mean, what would I do if my pajamas were out of season. So potentially embarrassing!

My first thought was “close your damn door,” but my next thought was “fabulous hunter green bathrobe”. Honestly, the only thing that kept me from declaring my love for him was his lack of combat helmet.

Perhaps, someday, if I am very lucky. . . .

Kate
http://www.cafepress.com/katedating

I Have Found Him

I have found the one, and in true Los Angeles fashion, our eyes met while we were driving. I initially thought I was going to need to curse him. He cut me off, slightly, and it annoyed me. But really, being able to slam on my brakes like that gave me the opportunity to look at him more directly than if our vehicles had just gently glided to a stop.

“But you don’t know him” is what you are thinking, isn’t it?

Oh, but I do. I know that he isn’t bound by convention. I know he has a vast imagination. I know that he isn’t all about flash. And I know that, driving record aside, he values safety beyond all else.

And I know all this because he was wearing a helmet. He was wearing a helmet while driving his Toyota Tercel.

Now you are thinking—“so he just got off of a construction site, and he hadn’t yet taken off his hard hat”.

No, it wasn’t a hard hat. It was a helmet.

Now you are thinking—“maybe he has a seizure disorder, give him a break”.

No, it wasn’t a medical safety helmet, it was helmet.

A combat helmet.

He was wearing a camouflage combat helmet…and not much else.

This guy… this guy has a story.

So, if you are out there dark blue Toyota Tercel driving camo helmet wearing dude—shoot me an email. It is obvious we are meant to be.

The Bucket List

The other day I saw a trailer for the movie “The Bucket List”. It’s a movie about two men (played by Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman) who make a list of all the things they want to do before they kick the bucket—and then they force each other to do them. The trailer got me thinking about what my list would look like.

Naturally, since it was a Saturday night, I had nothing to do, and crawled into bed (it was late—probably 7:30) with my pad of paper and pen. I was determined to create my list. I’m good with lists. I like checking things off. I was comfy. I was ready. Totally ready. Ready, ready, ready to write.

Yeah, I had nothing. I’ve still got nothing. How can there be nothing? The guys in the movie trailer had things like “sky diving” on their lists. I almost wrote down groceries. Well, in all fairness, I did need them.

When I pose myself the question, “what do I want to do before I die, that I haven’t done”, I draw a blank. I suppose I could be crafty, and write down “enjoy turning 150 years old” just to hedge my bets, but it’s probably not in keeping with the spirit of the exercise.

I know what you are all thinking—Clooney! Sure, that would be nice, but if he stays a fantasy, I think I’m fine with that.

Those boots? Those boots are lovely, but it seems sort of, what’s the word…, shallow to not have loftier aspirations.

I have goals for other people. For instance, I’d like my friend Pen to meet Alex O’Loughlin from “Moonlight”. I’d also like more people to watch “Moonlight” so that Pen and Mich don’t have to deal with the woes of cancellation. I’d like more people to understand exactly how serious the situation in Pakistan is before they have to start dealing with phrases like “nuclear fall-out”. Also, I’d like Paul Walker to discover what an amazing person Chloe is and declare his love (You know, for her not for someone else while talking to her. That would just be rude). But these are little things, and not really personal goals. Ok, maybe that Pakistan one.

American Express had a list last year. It was something like “50 Things to Do Before You Die”. Naturally, most of the things were expensive enough to require a credit card. And while some of the things sounded interesting, most of them didn’t actually pique enough curiosity for me to do anything about them.

I’m either completely lacking in imagination (possible), or completely satisfied. Yeah, no, I’m not satisfied at all. So, if I’m not satisfied with my life, why can’t I come up with a list of things that I want to do? How did I go from having goals to only having complaints? At this rate, the first thing on the list will be “figure out what I want”. Of course, if I write that down, the universe (still being male) will take me out right after I finally figure it out.

What’s on your list? Is it cheating if I steal your lists? What is your number one thing to do, that you haven’t done, before you die?

Kate
http://www.cafepress.com/katedating

Morally Wrong, But…

Obviously, many people mistake me for a top model. Between my near midget size and my penchant for sensible shoes, it really is no wonder. Sure, sometimes it is awkward for me—people stare. I am constantly getting questions like: “are those orthopedic shoes?” or “how did you manage to find a turtleneck in every color?” I have to just take people aside and tell them—“Hey, I’m a person, just like you—just so much more fashionable.”

Yeah. Not so much. In The Devil Wears Prada world, I am the pre-transformation Andi. Anna Wintour would never give me a nod, or even a hint of a smile. Most of the time, I feel good about that. Comfort is my guiding force.

And then I saw these: aka morally wrong.

Much like the Grinch, my small heart grew three sizes that day.

Obviously, there is no good reason to spend $1250 ($1400 if you count shipping) for boots that couldn’t touch rain or snow or pavement or grass or anything but the loving caress of angels.

And yet…oh, the sudden temptation. I’d go from weeble to umm…taller weeble. I have been relatively invisible most of my life. I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to ignore anyone wearing these boots.

But obviously morally wrong… and I don’t have anything to wear with them. Ok, one thing, but other than that these really don’t fit into my current life. Of course, they do fit into my fantasy life rather nicely. The one where my bottom is human sized, and George Clooney drops by with a pizza.

And I’m wearing these boots.

I tried to appeal to my friends—my responsible, reasonable, level-headed friends. Surely, they would present the logical arguments against this kind of frivolous, excessive purchase.

So far, not one of them has landed on the side of “don’t buy them”. In fact, I’m now keeping a record of the most inventive justifications. I think my favorite so far is “Not only would I wear them every day, but I’d wear them to bed”.

I’m opening this up to the blog community. Would you? Wouldn’t you?


Kate
Which, of course, I wouldn’t because it’s morally wrong… you know, mostly.

cafepress.com/katedating

The Off Girl

Obviously, no one is ever going to confuse me with Elsa Maxwell. People don’t leave my home raving about my lavish and animated parties. This is largely because I live in a very small apartment—and I don’t let anyone inside.

However, on very rare occasions, I will venture outside the fortress of solitude and do something that involves socialization. This is particularly true during the holidays when office parties and friend get togethers are more frequent. Like any warrior going into battle, I am girding my loins and preparing to enter the social fray.

In my preparation, which includes watching many episodes of Sex and The City and Samantha Who?, I’ve noticed that there are two extreme types in most social situations: “The Off Girl” and “The On Girl”.

I am clearly “The Off Girl”. My social switch has not been flicked in a very, very long time. There isn’t a ficus I don’t love. My instincts are to hide, even if that means that I have to physically create a barrier with my back to anyone attempting to breach the inner circle. Even though I do acknowledge anyone who does try to talk to me, I’m unlikely to engage on my own. I’m content to chat with my friends—which means that even if I go to a party where I could meet a ton of new people, I tend to stand in the corner and talk to the one other person I already know. Luckily, after watching last week’s Samantha Who?, I’ve got the outward swivel and smile move down (swivel, smile, beckon, repeat; swivel, smile, beckon, repeat; swivel, smile, beckon, repeat). I’m working on actually caring if someone approaches me. I have a feeling that one will take more time than the beckoning hair toss.

Alas, while I think I can adapt and engage with the rest of the average party goers, I’m afraid my opposite makes me want to commit murder. Oh, you’re right, that would require effort. Fine. My opposite makes me want to wall up my apartment door and just commit to never leaving once and for all.

My opposite is “The On Girl”. This girl can actually be a lovely person. She can be smart. She can even be, in the right circumstances, fun. She can also be the most annoying person on the planet. Get one drink in this girl, and everyone around her is suddenly an extra in “The On Girl” Show (swivel, smile, beckon, I will not kill “The On Girl”, I will not kill “The On Girl”). If you are actually talking to a guy (or a girl, or the wall), she will step up and monopolize the conversation. Volume levels are raised. Giggles do not stop. She will yell across a crowded room “Did you say Oklahoma?! OMG. That’s so funny because I went to school in Utah!” She’ll take whatever topic is out there and continue with “I did that too, only when I did it, it was snowing, and I ran in heels, uphill, both ways.” She might as well be tap dancing and singing “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better” (swivel, smile, beckon, I will not kill “The On Girl”, I will not kill “The On Girl”).

Perhaps I just wish I was more like “The On Girl”. Maybe I just wish my switch would be flicked. I could look upon these situations as valuable learning experiences. Rather than resenting her gift for insinuating herself into every conceivable conversation, I should watch her technique and strap on the tap shoes myself (swivel, smile, beckon).

Ugh. But then I’d just be annoyed with myself, and according to my Entertainment Weekly, self-loathing is so 5 minutes ago. And you know how trend conscious I am.

Kate

A Week (or so) in Review

Clooney v. Fabio
Clearly, I fall on the side (or the front, or the back) of Clooney here. While I’ve read differing accounts of whether or not Clooney actually pushed Fabio, would anyone really be all that bummed out if Clooney had decked him? I mean, who hasn’t thought about decking Fabio at one time or another? Sure, it seems to have started over a misunderstanding, and Clooney appears to have misinterpreted something. Again, don’t care. Plus, it appears to have been a manly response without gun play (rappers take note). Points go to Clooney here regardless of irrelevant things like facts, etc.

State of California v. Wildfires
Happily, we appear to have finally won this round. Thanks to all who inquired, but we got very lucky up here—really just some ash and smoke. It looks like the southern fires are also well in hand. Let’s not do that again, shall we?


Kate v. Possible Oscar Nominations
I’m already woefully behind on seeing movies that might get nominations. Each year friends and I print out the nominations and try to see everything on the lists. And I do mean everything. This generally means that you must pay some attention early in the year just in case something hasn’t been released yet on DVD by the time of the awards.

I’ve seen two movies in the last two weeks, and oddly enough they both featured Amy Ryan. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her before, but now I’ve seen her in two movies in a row, and I understand she is also in Dan in Real Life. Good year for Amy Ryan.

The good news—Gone Baby Gone and Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead are both great movies for the actors. If you primarily go see a movie for performances, these are excellent pictures for you. Both movies present some very interesting moral dilemmas and the concept of “gray area” gets a real workout. The bad news—I’m not a big fan of violence, so I did avert my eyes a couple of times in both, so if you are really squeamish, keep that in mind. Most people probably wont flinch. Also, if the idea of watching Philip Seymour Hoffman in a very naked sex scene makes you uncomfortable, you might also want to avert your eyes from that. But damn, he’s good--- wait, I don’t mean in the sex scene (well, he appears to perform admirably, I suppose), I mean in the movie generally.

I have noticed that pacing in three of the major movies I’ve seen recently was very different from what you’d expect. For instance, in Gone Baby Gone, I actually said to myself “wait, that can’t be it”. And it wasn’t, but it felt like the movie was wrapping up. “Devil” plays with time in terms of how things are presented. Even Michael Clayton (oooh, baby) had weird pacing to it—although the end… wow, the end.

Anyway, I’m losing the battle of the numbers, but winning in that I’m seeing some great performances. But I’ve got to see a comedy soon because none of the ones I’ve seen recently have been all that warm and fuzzy. If only they would make my love life in to a comedy—now that would make you laugh until you cry. ;)


Kate v. Male Population of Los Angeles
Males seem to still be winning this one. Albert Ellis would be so disappointed in me. I was supposed to speak to 50 men—25 per month. It turned out to be far more challenging than originally planned. Apparently, my ability to turn invisible is still as keen as ever. Joy. When men do see me, my attempts at conversation seem to yield nods—not technically responses, so they don’t count. The other day I actually thought I had a live one, until I realized he was actually on his phone’s headset, and his responses were to the person on the other end. Damn Bluetooth.

The rules committee has generously allowed me to the end of this month before drastic measures will be taken. I’ve made it to 25 (and ½). I’m thinking that I might need bait in order to make this happen successfully. I need a vivacious, gorgeous, 20 year old female to reel them in. Of course, since the idea is for me to get a guy to respond to me, that might actually pose a roadblock. They might not be able to talk to me and drool over the bait, what with all their blood rushing southward and all.

Drastic measures involve me pretending to take a survey in the mall just to start conversation. It’s less likely to get me arrested than a bathing suit.

Ah, Romance

This is the subject of an email that came to me today and is currently in my inbox:

“your new penis is here waiting for you”

I swear to you, if this is from my blind date, I'm out.


Kate
cafepress.com/katedating

2nd Post- XFiles Is Official

I'm leaving for Vancouver now. It's a little early, but I need to become an established Canadian resident before I can work on this damn thing. Oh, and the new directions for their relationship better be naked directions, damn it. And I don't mean for Tooms or Pusher.

Happy Dance! Happy Dance!! Oh, and M, we never did get to Vancouver when it was actually shooting up there. I'm just saying... Ok, you need me to spell this out for you? VANCOUVER.

Kate is suddenly bouncy from more than sugar

===
Fox sets date for 'X-Files' sequel
Scully, Mulder return to theaters on July 25
Daily Variety
By PAMELA MCCLINTOCK, TATIANA SIEGEL

The long-awaited second "X-Files" film is finally a go, with 20th Century Fox setting a July 25, 2008 release date.

Untitled project reunites "X-Files" creator Chris Carter with thesps David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, who will reprise their signature roles as FBI agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully.

Carter begins lensing in December in Vancouver from a script he co-wrote with Frank Spotnitz, a veteran scribe of the long-running "X-Files" television series, which became a worldwide hit in its 1993-2002 run on the Fox network. Spotnitz also co-wrote with Carter the screenplay for 1998 feature "X-Files."

Studio is keeping the film's logline under wraps, but stressed the pic is a stand-alone story and supernatural thriller that takes the complicated relationship between Mulder and Scully in new directions.

As of now, there are only two other titles skedded for July 25, both comedies. Sony unspools Will Ferrell-John C. Reilly starrer "Step Brothers," directed by Adam McKay, while MGM has bows untitled Ice Cube family laffer.

Bringing the "X-Files." sequel to the bigscreen was waylaid when Chris Carter brought a 2005 lawsuit against Fox over how the "X-Files" syndication profits were divvied up. Suit was later settled.

Earlier this year, the issue seemed to have been resolved, with Duchovny and Anderson both indicating the that the film was finally forward.

Released in 1998, feature film "The X-Files" grossed $187 million worldwide, including a domestic haul of $83.9 million and an international cume of more than $103 million.

Welcome!

Welcome to my mid-life crisis. My name is Kate (Hi, Kate!), and I will be your tour guide. I find myself saying “how’d that happen” all the time these days—and I don't just mean when I look at my enormous bottom on the mirror (I know how that happened—get thee back, oh evil Häagen-Dazs. Well, not that far back, that’s just taking me far too literally. Closer. Closer. Closer. Ugh. Damn you!!).

Um, anyway, other popular questions with me these days:

Goals.
What happened to them? How did I go from having goals to only having complaints?

Career.
At what point am I going to discover what it is that I want to be when I grow up? When I was a teenager, I absolutely knew—Laura Holt. I wanted to be Laura Holt. Not a detective, but actually Laura Holt. I had the hats. I had the moxie. Sadly, did not have Remington Steele, but I was sure that one day I would have him or a reasonable facsimile. Yeah, still waiting on that one. At least I still have the hats, right?

Sex.
Look, I’ve known a lot of wonderful, caring popular ladies. Very popular. Very, very, very, very, very popular, and I have cheered them on. But these days, the overwhelming media perception about sex is that you meet someone and you immediately have sex with them and then maybe you get to know them, maybe not. Anyone see “Big Shots” the other night? The relatively chaste about-to-be-divorced guy (played by the dreamy Michael Vartan) was lamenting the loss of old fashioned girl who waited until the third date (third date? that's his version of old fashioned?) (I think the woman he met at the party had known him all of about 20 minutes before wanting to get on with it). All of his buddies told him that he should revel in the fact that women now have sex like men. Ok. Well, if that’s your thing, congratulations, but behaving like a guy isn’t really a selling point for me. I’ve spent years complaining about the way guys treat women, and now I’m supposed to be psyched that I have the opportunity to return the favor, or that now neither of us will give a shit? This is progress? Eh. Not so much. Oooh—perhaps I have found a career goal after all—nun. Clearly, these are my people.

Something Wicked.
Ever get the feeling that really big change is coming? A couple of times a year, I seem to get this overwhelming feeling that something is coming. I don’t think it’s anything particularly psychic—it’s more likely that my subconscious is picking something up that I’m not ready to deal with in any other way. The change isn’t always bad, either, but it is usually big. And I’ve never been wrong. I’m just hoping that this time it means that George Clooney will be one of my trick or treaters tonight. And if he is, I promise to seriously reconsider my stance on the paragraph above.


Kate, seemingly the last relatively old fashioned, goal-challenged girl in the world

www.cafepress.com/katedating

Reader Mail (NSFW)

I get a ton of email every day. It’s obviously from my dear readers who have taken the time to really reflect on what has been written here over the past year. I’ve touched them. This much is clear. I feel badly that I don’t always respond immediately. Because I was working on a friend’s movie, I have been particularly remiss in not responding to reader mail in a timely fashion. So, in order to apologize properly, I think I should respond to some of it here.

Question 1: Are you good in bed?
Yes. I am very good in bed. For instance, I can sleep on my side or my back with equal comfort. While I am a blanket hog, I don’t need to sleep on any particular side of the bed. Left, right, center—it’s really all the same to me.

Question 2: Do you want a man-sized shaft?
I think the construction of this question leaves me with some scary imagery, actually. Are they literally offering me a 6 foot penis? If they are, I’ll have to politely decline. It would be like the penis that ate New York. So, thank you for the offer, but I’ll save that for some other deserving person. Of course, now I’ll be haunted that an entire city is being terrorized by a gigantic penis.

(How does a gigantic penis move, do you suppose? Does it hop? Well, that makes it much less frightening.)

Question 3: Indian man looking for American wife. Are you her?
It’s not that I doubt the obvious sincerity of this magnanimous proposal, but I’m very quirky. When I finally hear those magical words, I’d prefer it if they didn't start in an email addressed: “To Whom It May Concern”. But that’s just me. Good luck to you in all your future endeavors. P.S. Hit me up again in 6 months, and I might reconsider depending on how my blind date goes.

Question 4: I bet you look like a troll.
Playskool Weeble. Pay attention.

Question 5: We can help you with your ED problems?
Thanks! But I’m happy to report that Ed and I are getting along just fine. Really, he isn’t giving me any hassle at all these days.

Question 6: Why would anyone date someone so obviously bitter?
Please see answers to #1 and #4. How could anyone resist?

Question 7: I am a Nigerian prince. My parents were killed in a bombing, leaving me $25 million dollars that I secretly need to move to the United States. If you confidentially accept this money transfer into your bank account, I will pay you $5 million. Please click this link.
Finally, my prince has come! Let me just find that bank account info….


Yep, as you can see katedating@yahoo.com gets a lot of mail. For instance, I had 42 pages of thought provoking mail much along the lines of the above when I finally had a chance to look at it today. Out of curiosity—does spam work? It has to, right, otherwise why would it come in such high volumes? Has anyone ever responded back to them? I don’t mean to actually place an order for Megadik, but just for the heck of it.

I’m thinking about it. Dear Mr. Nigerian Prince…

Kate

Oh, Yeah????

Everyone who said I couldn’t meet a man by staying inside my apartment, I’d like you to pay me $10. Please feel free to send it to my email address via paypal.

I came home today to find not one, but two gentlemen inside my apartment. That’s right—they were already here. I didn’t even have to go out and bring them back. They were already here waiting for me.

Sure, that could sound creepy and dangerous—sort of like a home invasion, but they were clearly fans. In fact, I’m pretty sure one of them asked me where he could get one of my lovely products (click here for lovely products).

Fine, they were actually here because the pipe burst, and the management company thought that water flooding the downstairs apartment might be a bad thing. Whatever. I think it’s so obvious that they were fans. They even asked me for an autograph… on their work order, but that’s just because it is all they had on hand. And I totally personalized it with “thanks for all of your support” which will undoubtedly make an impression when they read it J

I don’t want to seem ungrateful in any way for the universe sending me men, but if it could give me some warning next time that would be lovely. You never know when I might have access to the lethal spork/chair combo, and I don’t really love surprises. We narrowly avoided a minor, yet completely defensible, sporking when I walked in the door to hear people in my apartment. Apparently no one saw the “Fortress of Solitude” sticker on the door. But that’s just a minor quibble.

Ooooh, also, with the whole “notice” thing—it would help quell the panic that rises along the lines of “shit, my apartment is a mess; I live alone, no one sees this but me; where did I leave that bra; no really, the jungle in my living room is because of the painting; I’m not really a slob; I swear the walls were painted that way when I got here”.

But other than those infinitesimal issues, I completely appreciate the universe stockpiling men in the hall for me. Nice work.

I have to go clean now. I understand the plasterer could be coming sometime in the next few days to repair the hole in the wall. I need to practice my “oh so casual” twirl into the room in my sweater set, a-line skirt, pumps and pearls so that it looks natural.

What do you mean I’m not Doris Day?

Kate

Bitter Apparel

When 25 year old blond girls with big boobs and pleasant personalities cannot get dates, you know your city has fallen into a yawning relationship chasm—a chasm so dangerously deep that only bitter apparel can save it.

Because you look to me to be your date-less leader, I took it upon myself to provide you with this lifeline of clothing.

Please click here and enjoy: http://www.cafepress.com/katedating

I’ve already market tested the tote bag on set last week, and it certainly sparked conversation. True to form, all the women who saw it actually came over to tell me how much they agreed with it. Also true to form—the guys asked for an explanation. Literally—“what does that mean?” Not one woman asked me that question. We just know.

In addition to dating horror stories from the ladies, several of the guys offered up helpful tips on dealing with men and what men are looking for. It was actually pretty sweet.

But guys, we know what your problems are and the pitfalls of actually dating a male. We get that. The problem is, all your advice started with “when you are dating a guy”—um, yeah, you are already far ahead of where most of us are. We need the bit that starts with “go here, and you might have a shot at meaningful conversation” or “go here, and you’ll get a shot at some guy giving you a meaningful nod or glance in your direction that will go nowhere but will officially be considered progress”.

Every woman involved in the conversation on Sunday asked the question “but where do you meet people” and every guy in the conversation said “What do you mean? Everywhere. Women are everywhere.”

True. Fabulous, beautiful 21 year old women arrive in Los Angeles every day by bus, plane and train. There is an endless supply of them. And every guy here seems to know this. Why pursue a relationship with an older 30 something when you know that you can have a revolving door of girls, seemingly happy to use and be used? Guys here just need to point—“I want that one”. Ladies, all you have to do is… um…

Yeah.

Kate
(Stay tuned for more exciting Kate Dating t-shirt designs)