I finally got to 6 ½ conversations—and all I had to do was trap some poor sod in an elevator to get there.
Ok, not really trap… more like confuse. You see, the elevator in my building tends to have its own strong opinions regarding which floor should be yours. So, if you want to get off on the third floor, and the elevator has other thoughts on the matter, you could end up somewhere else altogether.
Actually, it would be rather cool if it also granted wishes—such as opening the door to George Clooney’s floor instead of the laundry. Or opened the door straight into the ice cream shop across the street. Or… yeah, you get the idea.
Naturally, a young man got into the elevator on the first floor. He wanted to go up to one of the upper floors. The Rod Serling elevator decided that he should meet me on the ground floor instead. So, despite the fact that the man started on a higher level and pressed all the correct buttons, he got to enjoy a detour full of witty repartee and charm. In fact, not only did the elevator answer my call first, but it forced him to visit all the floors in between the ground and his destination just for fun.
The conversation wasn’t groundbreaking, but he did note that he appeared to be trapped in the elevator (as opposed to R Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet”), which gave us minutes of good, clean, wholesome humor before we bid each other adieu.
I’d like to tell you that it was love at first sight (or third floor). I’d like to tell you that, but alas, I really only managed to cut myself on the box of water I was holding.
No worries, it only bled a little… bandages didn’t even soak through…probably no scarring…totally worth needing to get that tetanus shot.
j/k
Kate
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Trifecta
It’s not that I’m discouraged in my quest to date, interact, talk or receive acknowledgement from the opposite sex. Ok, it is that. But allow me to spin a tale of how the social scene works for the non-famous in Hollywood.
Man flies into city for business meetings. He gets off the plane, checks into the hotel, and receives phone call from friend of a friend offering to meet him for dinner. Needless to say, love bloomed, violins played and the couple is still going strong. That’s right—the man flew into Los Angeles and within hours had a girlfriend. I don’t mean hook-up. I mean, “wow, I really like her. Maybe I should lavaliere her” (that’s right, a reference to ABC Family Channel’s “Greek” by a woman long out of college—love me).
And why wouldn’t this woman be interested—he’s a man who has a job, who showers regularly and likes girls. That is hitting the Los Angeles dating trifecta.
Basically, in order to find true love in Los Angeles, a man has to cross the border. I bet if I actually went to the border between California and one of its eastern neighbors, I would find long lines of interesting, intelligent, attractive woman waiting for the cars to cross or to tag the planes as they flew overhead.
Now, let’s examine the majority of my female friends in Los Angeles.
Um…
Well, there’s…
And…
What about…
Uh…
Yeah, I’ve got nothing.
Not only can’t I conjure a great “wow, we just clicked” story, the best date story I can think of is one that involved some dude sticking his finger into Veronica’s mouth as they were driving thinking he was pulling some sexy move on her on their second date. Oh, swoon.
I can’t even get an employed, straight, relatively clean male to pay attention when I say hello to him.
At this point, my trifecta would involve the phrase “would you like fries with that” (and the answer is “duh”).
What I need to know is—if a man gets granted a girlfriend along with his rental car keys upon arrival in this fine city, will it work for women in the opposite direction? In other words, if I arrive at Dulles will I have my own person tour guide by the time I get to Dupont circle? And if so, when is the earliest flight to DC I can take?
Again, I’m just saying…
Kate
P.S. Seriously thinking about coming out with my own line of “LA is Where Dating Comes to Die” greeting cards.
Man flies into city for business meetings. He gets off the plane, checks into the hotel, and receives phone call from friend of a friend offering to meet him for dinner. Needless to say, love bloomed, violins played and the couple is still going strong. That’s right—the man flew into Los Angeles and within hours had a girlfriend. I don’t mean hook-up. I mean, “wow, I really like her. Maybe I should lavaliere her” (that’s right, a reference to ABC Family Channel’s “Greek” by a woman long out of college—love me).
And why wouldn’t this woman be interested—he’s a man who has a job, who showers regularly and likes girls. That is hitting the Los Angeles dating trifecta.
Basically, in order to find true love in Los Angeles, a man has to cross the border. I bet if I actually went to the border between California and one of its eastern neighbors, I would find long lines of interesting, intelligent, attractive woman waiting for the cars to cross or to tag the planes as they flew overhead.
Now, let’s examine the majority of my female friends in Los Angeles.
Um…
Well, there’s…
And…
What about…
Uh…
Yeah, I’ve got nothing.
Not only can’t I conjure a great “wow, we just clicked” story, the best date story I can think of is one that involved some dude sticking his finger into Veronica’s mouth as they were driving thinking he was pulling some sexy move on her on their second date. Oh, swoon.
I can’t even get an employed, straight, relatively clean male to pay attention when I say hello to him.
At this point, my trifecta would involve the phrase “would you like fries with that” (and the answer is “duh”).
What I need to know is—if a man gets granted a girlfriend along with his rental car keys upon arrival in this fine city, will it work for women in the opposite direction? In other words, if I arrive at Dulles will I have my own person tour guide by the time I get to Dupont circle? And if so, when is the earliest flight to DC I can take?
Again, I’m just saying…
Kate
P.S. Seriously thinking about coming out with my own line of “LA is Where Dating Comes to Die” greeting cards.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Hey, You!
Hey, you! Yeah, you… the guy in the slate blue t-shirt (which admittedly brings out your eyes and makes you look like you work out more than you probably do… because you are probably just blessed with strong capable arms and broad… ok, stop distracting me from my completely justifiable outrage).
Ahem.
Anyway…you!
When a mature woman says hello to you, it will not kill you to acknowledge her. You know, it’s just polite to acknowledge another human being, and not just because she’s been challenged to talk to strange men and needs to add at least one guy per weekend so that she doesn’t end up looking like a complete social failure. Seriously, it’s not that.
Sure, I’m not the best looking woman you’ve ever seen in your life. I will also grant that I am not the best looking woman you’ve seen today, or … you know, even that hour. But in that millisecond before you glanced to the right of me and saw that really fetching homeless woman, I was looking good.
But, nooooooooo…. you just kept right on walking… leaving me desolate, alone and still stuck at 5 ½ men, ugh!
I have no other choice but to console myself with ice cream and several additional hours of weather channel viewing.
Whatever.
Kate
Ahem.
Anyway…you!
When a mature woman says hello to you, it will not kill you to acknowledge her. You know, it’s just polite to acknowledge another human being, and not just because she’s been challenged to talk to strange men and needs to add at least one guy per weekend so that she doesn’t end up looking like a complete social failure. Seriously, it’s not that.
Sure, I’m not the best looking woman you’ve ever seen in your life. I will also grant that I am not the best looking woman you’ve seen today, or … you know, even that hour. But in that millisecond before you glanced to the right of me and saw that really fetching homeless woman, I was looking good.
But, nooooooooo…. you just kept right on walking… leaving me desolate, alone and still stuck at 5 ½ men, ugh!
I have no other choice but to console myself with ice cream and several additional hours of weather channel viewing.
Whatever.
Kate
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Tsunami Advisory
So, I’m sitting here watching weather porn—more commonly referred to as the weather channel, and a blaring warning started scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Apparently, most of the pacific coastline is under a “tsunami advisory” post Peruvian earthquake (if you have loved ones in Peru—hope that they are all ok!).
Now, I’m all for advanced warning, so I immediately called Chloe to tell her that her evening bike ride on the strand might be a bit soggier than anticipated. Logically, she inquired as to what exactly an advisory was.
Yeah, still don’t know. It sounds less dire than a warning or a watch. I understand that warnings are set off by ocean sensors when the ocean levels change. Presumably the levels all change when the actual earth moves, yes? I also understand, largely because of Chad on CNN, that there aren’t very many sensors along the Peruvian coastline, so they might not know until it is in progress that something is headed to them locally.
That’s not so much comforting.
Our advisory came from Hawaii. Hawaii is looking at being double screwed as they are facing a tropical storm from one direction and a potential tsunami from another. Talk about a bad week.
However, after reading Hawaii’s alert, I’m still not certain what this all means. Should we all be engaging in weather porn? Should I head east instead of having a casual sunset viewing party of one? Should I just watch more weather channel and CNN in hope that some of the incredibly hot meteorologists are sent out into the rain, where they will be sporting jaunting baseball caps while watching their clothes get nearly blown from their wet, dripping bodies…muscles rippling…
Wait, what was the question?
Anyway, I just think that a “tsunami advisory” should actually include advice. Otherwise, they should just call it “tsunami casual mention”.
Kate
Now, I’m all for advanced warning, so I immediately called Chloe to tell her that her evening bike ride on the strand might be a bit soggier than anticipated. Logically, she inquired as to what exactly an advisory was.
Yeah, still don’t know. It sounds less dire than a warning or a watch. I understand that warnings are set off by ocean sensors when the ocean levels change. Presumably the levels all change when the actual earth moves, yes? I also understand, largely because of Chad on CNN, that there aren’t very many sensors along the Peruvian coastline, so they might not know until it is in progress that something is headed to them locally.
That’s not so much comforting.
Our advisory came from Hawaii. Hawaii is looking at being double screwed as they are facing a tropical storm from one direction and a potential tsunami from another. Talk about a bad week.
However, after reading Hawaii’s alert, I’m still not certain what this all means. Should we all be engaging in weather porn? Should I head east instead of having a casual sunset viewing party of one? Should I just watch more weather channel and CNN in hope that some of the incredibly hot meteorologists are sent out into the rain, where they will be sporting jaunting baseball caps while watching their clothes get nearly blown from their wet, dripping bodies…muscles rippling…
Wait, what was the question?
Anyway, I just think that a “tsunami advisory” should actually include advice. Otherwise, they should just call it “tsunami casual mention”.
Kate
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Tuesday Thoughts
Tuesday Thoughts
First, the update on “The 50”:
1. Conversations with delectable Duchovny: 0
2. Game over, I have totally won conversations with George Clooney: Shockingly, also 0
3. Meaningful conversations with anyone vaguely interested in me: 0
4. Meaningless attempts at starting human interaction: 2 ½.
That’s right people, after two days, I have had attempted interaction with 2 ½ strangers of the male persuasion. This is significantly harder than I thought. Part of the rules is that the guy responds back, and while meaningful interaction is not required, some sort of acknowledgement is.
You’re curious about the ½, aren’t you? I will assure you, this is not in reference to a half man. In one case, I tried to say to a man, but a truck went past at that exact moment. He either didn’t hear me, or chose to continue walking without acknowledging me (much like the delivery guy who I just encountered in the elevator). I get minor credit for the guy on the street though, because I did make the attempt, but I was interfered with. Those of you who embrace sports the way I do, will understand that if you are interfered with, you actually do get to advance in the game. I also said “hi” and “thank you” to a man who opened the door for me, and he did respond—although he responded to the three of us going through the door, so not a direct hit there, either. Thus, each man counted as a ¼.
And they said there would be no math. ;p
Now, onto my profound thoughts for the day.
Do I do ruffles?
I realize that most of you have never seen me, but just picture someone very short and reminiscent of a weeble (yes, as in “weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down”). I think ruffles may be for perky people. I put on a shirt, which I obviously bought at some point, and noticed the bottom of it had a ruffle. I put a light sweater over it because clearly August calls for sweaters—and perhaps to hide the ruffle. I’m just not sure I’m a ruffle, or at least not anymore. Maybe on talk-like-a-pirate day, I can also wear the ruffled shirt.
But if I rule out ruffle, am I also ruling out pleats? I have pleated skirts, some that are even a little bit on the shorter side. Can a woman careening into the deep end of thirty wade back into the shallows of a kicky pleated skirt? I hope so because at the moment, much like my remote, you’ll have to pry them out of my cold, gnarled hands before I give them up entirely. I refuse to relegate them to the back of my closet, only to emerge on dress-like-Britney-when-she-used-to-have-a-career day.
Yes, that day does exist. Does so.
Interestingly enough, it coincides with leave-job-in-blaze-of-glory day.
One final thought to share, and it has to do with the upcoming television season (also known as Kate’s Nirvana). I’ve seen the pilot for Private Practice by the creators of Grey’s Anatomy. I love GA. I embrace it, warmly, and as often as possible. I’m uncertain about Private Practice. Sure, I’m naturally nervous about spin-offs, although it is seriously time to give Ari (from Entourage) his own show, but I think my reserve comes from part of the premise of the show. Addison’s character leaves Seattle to find a new life in Los Angeles.
I get leaving the ex (or in her case, exes). I even get the finding yourself in Los Angeles thing. But in the promos it sounds like she’s coming to LA to improve her romantic/social life.
Hello???
LA is where dating comes to die.
I’m just saying.
Kate
First, the update on “The 50”:
1. Conversations with delectable Duchovny: 0
2. Game over, I have totally won conversations with George Clooney: Shockingly, also 0
3. Meaningful conversations with anyone vaguely interested in me: 0
4. Meaningless attempts at starting human interaction: 2 ½.
That’s right people, after two days, I have had attempted interaction with 2 ½ strangers of the male persuasion. This is significantly harder than I thought. Part of the rules is that the guy responds back, and while meaningful interaction is not required, some sort of acknowledgement is.
You’re curious about the ½, aren’t you? I will assure you, this is not in reference to a half man. In one case, I tried to say to a man, but a truck went past at that exact moment. He either didn’t hear me, or chose to continue walking without acknowledging me (much like the delivery guy who I just encountered in the elevator). I get minor credit for the guy on the street though, because I did make the attempt, but I was interfered with. Those of you who embrace sports the way I do, will understand that if you are interfered with, you actually do get to advance in the game. I also said “hi” and “thank you” to a man who opened the door for me, and he did respond—although he responded to the three of us going through the door, so not a direct hit there, either. Thus, each man counted as a ¼.
And they said there would be no math. ;p
Now, onto my profound thoughts for the day.
Do I do ruffles?
I realize that most of you have never seen me, but just picture someone very short and reminiscent of a weeble (yes, as in “weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down”). I think ruffles may be for perky people. I put on a shirt, which I obviously bought at some point, and noticed the bottom of it had a ruffle. I put a light sweater over it because clearly August calls for sweaters—and perhaps to hide the ruffle. I’m just not sure I’m a ruffle, or at least not anymore. Maybe on talk-like-a-pirate day, I can also wear the ruffled shirt.
But if I rule out ruffle, am I also ruling out pleats? I have pleated skirts, some that are even a little bit on the shorter side. Can a woman careening into the deep end of thirty wade back into the shallows of a kicky pleated skirt? I hope so because at the moment, much like my remote, you’ll have to pry them out of my cold, gnarled hands before I give them up entirely. I refuse to relegate them to the back of my closet, only to emerge on dress-like-Britney-when-she-used-to-have-a-career day.
Yes, that day does exist. Does so.
Interestingly enough, it coincides with leave-job-in-blaze-of-glory day.
One final thought to share, and it has to do with the upcoming television season (also known as Kate’s Nirvana). I’ve seen the pilot for Private Practice by the creators of Grey’s Anatomy. I love GA. I embrace it, warmly, and as often as possible. I’m uncertain about Private Practice. Sure, I’m naturally nervous about spin-offs, although it is seriously time to give Ari (from Entourage) his own show, but I think my reserve comes from part of the premise of the show. Addison’s character leaves Seattle to find a new life in Los Angeles.
I get leaving the ex (or in her case, exes). I even get the finding yourself in Los Angeles thing. But in the promos it sounds like she’s coming to LA to improve her romantic/social life.
Hello???
LA is where dating comes to die.
I’m just saying.
Kate
Sunday, August 05, 2007
A New Plan
In honor of the upcoming anniversary of this blog, I’ve decided to ratchet up the insanity, or totally acceptable behavior depending on your temperament, of course.
My friend PT suggested that in honor of the late psychotherapist, Albert Ellis, that I undertake a new experiment. Apparently, in his youth, Dr. Ellis got over his shyness by approaching, and talking to, 100 women. It’s all part of a more confrontational approach to changing your life.
You can see where this is going, can’t you?
Over the next 2 months, starting on Monday (Aug. 6, 2007), I will make contact with 50 strange men. Ok, not strange as in drooling, preaching that aliens have landed, or ranting at invisible forces (because those things are obviously not strange at all, and yet make for an awkward initial approach), but strange as in unfamiliar to me.
Why only 50 instead of 100? I didn’t know Dr. Ellis, so I’m only bidding half respects to his plan. Plus, 100 men seems excessive and time consuming unless I’m allowed to shout to men in a crowded stadium—and at this point, that approach appears to be disallowed by the ruling committee.
Yes, I’m serious about the rules committee. You see, my friends know me well. My friend DM looked at me when I agreed to this and immediately said “we need to set up rules because I can already see the ‘how do I get out of this’ wheels turning”. She was completely wrong… almost totally wrong… largely incorrect… ahem, moving on.
I give you the “Kate Dating in LA Rules of 50” from here on known as “The 50”.
1. It doesn’t have to be a meaningful conversation, it just has to be an approach. For instance, “what time is it” is a perfectly acceptable encounter, and will count toward my total tally provided the man is a stranger.
2. If I am introduced to a man by a friend, actual conversation must take place. In this case my patented “Hey” is not enough to count. I suggested that “hey, there” with my hair toss and grimace trying to pass itself off as a smile should count because it can be flirty, but I was shot down.
3. Service industry people who are waiting on me do not count. Apparently, it is their job to talk to me, and therefore, I can’t claim credit for telling the waiter or host that I have arrived for lunch. I assume this also rules out pizza boys, cable repairmen, maintenance, etc. Although if you knew how long it took me to call to get something repaired or delivered, you might be more inclined to count the contact.
4. Men who approach me (sheyah, like that ever happens) do not count, unless I throw a hissie fit in front of the rules committee, and then they might reconsider.
5. Conversation with the delectable David Duchovny will count towards 5 men. I have met him on occasion before, so he can’t get me out of the whole experiment, but since I am generally unable to put a sentence together in front of him, actual conversation counts for more than one man. Plus, he’s dreamy and should always count as more than one man ;) On a side note—between Dexter and David’s new show “Californication”, I can finally justify having Showtime. God bless every development executive over there at that fine institution.
6. Meeting George Clooney and engaging in conversation, or whatever else I can engage him in (hee), allows me to pass go and collect $200. Also, I’m pretty sure the rules committee has to give me at least $1000 each if I have a conversation with him. They don’t know this, but as they are probably reading this now, I feel like I’ve given them ample warning :) So, should Mr. Clooney put into place an affirmative action program that requires a quota of conversation with at least one troll-like woman with an absolutely enormous bottom for every 100 supermodels, I can see this being quite successful. Or prison. Prison is also a possibility.
I don’t always have to have someone with me, but PT will be monitoring my progress over lunch. This way, she knows that at least a certain percentage of my claims are valid.
These are the basics. I start tomorrow. If any of these encounters lead to hilarity, or indictment, I’ll be sure to let you know.
0 for 50 and counting.
Kate
My friend PT suggested that in honor of the late psychotherapist, Albert Ellis, that I undertake a new experiment. Apparently, in his youth, Dr. Ellis got over his shyness by approaching, and talking to, 100 women. It’s all part of a more confrontational approach to changing your life.
You can see where this is going, can’t you?
Over the next 2 months, starting on Monday (Aug. 6, 2007), I will make contact with 50 strange men. Ok, not strange as in drooling, preaching that aliens have landed, or ranting at invisible forces (because those things are obviously not strange at all, and yet make for an awkward initial approach), but strange as in unfamiliar to me.
Why only 50 instead of 100? I didn’t know Dr. Ellis, so I’m only bidding half respects to his plan. Plus, 100 men seems excessive and time consuming unless I’m allowed to shout to men in a crowded stadium—and at this point, that approach appears to be disallowed by the ruling committee.
Yes, I’m serious about the rules committee. You see, my friends know me well. My friend DM looked at me when I agreed to this and immediately said “we need to set up rules because I can already see the ‘how do I get out of this’ wheels turning”. She was completely wrong… almost totally wrong… largely incorrect… ahem, moving on.
I give you the “Kate Dating in LA Rules of 50” from here on known as “The 50”.
1. It doesn’t have to be a meaningful conversation, it just has to be an approach. For instance, “what time is it” is a perfectly acceptable encounter, and will count toward my total tally provided the man is a stranger.
2. If I am introduced to a man by a friend, actual conversation must take place. In this case my patented “Hey” is not enough to count. I suggested that “hey, there” with my hair toss and grimace trying to pass itself off as a smile should count because it can be flirty, but I was shot down.
3. Service industry people who are waiting on me do not count. Apparently, it is their job to talk to me, and therefore, I can’t claim credit for telling the waiter or host that I have arrived for lunch. I assume this also rules out pizza boys, cable repairmen, maintenance, etc. Although if you knew how long it took me to call to get something repaired or delivered, you might be more inclined to count the contact.
4. Men who approach me (sheyah, like that ever happens) do not count, unless I throw a hissie fit in front of the rules committee, and then they might reconsider.
5. Conversation with the delectable David Duchovny will count towards 5 men. I have met him on occasion before, so he can’t get me out of the whole experiment, but since I am generally unable to put a sentence together in front of him, actual conversation counts for more than one man. Plus, he’s dreamy and should always count as more than one man ;) On a side note—between Dexter and David’s new show “Californication”, I can finally justify having Showtime. God bless every development executive over there at that fine institution.
6. Meeting George Clooney and engaging in conversation, or whatever else I can engage him in (hee), allows me to pass go and collect $200. Also, I’m pretty sure the rules committee has to give me at least $1000 each if I have a conversation with him. They don’t know this, but as they are probably reading this now, I feel like I’ve given them ample warning :) So, should Mr. Clooney put into place an affirmative action program that requires a quota of conversation with at least one troll-like woman with an absolutely enormous bottom for every 100 supermodels, I can see this being quite successful. Or prison. Prison is also a possibility.
I don’t always have to have someone with me, but PT will be monitoring my progress over lunch. This way, she knows that at least a certain percentage of my claims are valid.
These are the basics. I start tomorrow. If any of these encounters lead to hilarity, or indictment, I’ll be sure to let you know.
0 for 50 and counting.
Kate
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Two Men—Continuous Waiting
I have an update and a confusion.
First the update. FFOM reappeared. Fabulous. As you may recall, when last we visited the joy of FFOM, I was enjoying (and by enjoying, I mean screaming in annoyance) official radio silence. He missed the movie screening, despite the fact that he was in the movie and had been looking forward to the event.
Anyway, he reappeared. He emailed me and apologized for missing the event—he was stuck working, and couldn’t escape for the screening (not to mention the 4 hour round trip from San Diego). On the upside, he gave me another email address and asked (more than once over the course of the email) for me to contact him. He even told me that this email address rolled directly to his phone, so it would be easier for him to stay in touch with me.
After careful analysis with friends (hey, I’m a girl, it’s what I do), I decided that my dance card wasn’t all that full, and that I would respond to him. So, I did. I emailed him. I was charming (as charming as I can be), and planted questions so he could feel free to discuss his work, passions, desire for me, etc.
Yeah.
That was three weeks ago. Once again, radio silence. I have no doubt he is really busy with work. I certainly understand that. However, I think I’m going to have to finally write him off. If it is this hard to get his attention now during the potential courting phase, actually dating him would seem to be a tricky prospect.
Now, for the confusion.
I think I was asked out. Sort of. I think. Maybe. Possibly. Oy.
I went to see the improv show of an acquaintance—a very attractive, intelligent and funny acquaintance who also happens to male. I don’t know if he’s single. I think he’s single. I’m sure he’s not married. Ok, I’m not sure of that either, but he doesn’t wear a ring, and he’s never mentioned a wife.
I arrived at the event, and immediately felt completely sick—indicating either a continuing stomach problem (most likely), or nerves that would rattle even the earthquake retrofitted buildings of LA (also entirely possible). I was feeling so bad that I was just about to turn tail and run back to my car, when he saw me. Swell—I was going to have to stick it out.
The show was fun, and he was good in it—and when it was over, I absolutely wanted to get out of there and do the “oh, woe is me” in my apartment. But I forced myself to at least talk to him afterwards. And then it happened. He said “We should go get a drink when I get back into town”. Without thinking about it, I said “Sure!”. We completed some small talk, and then I ran back to my car.
During the run back to the car, all of a sudden I thought—did he just ask me out? And this is what I am posing to you all. Did he just ask me out?
At first I thought it was just one of those things you say to someone who you sort of know, who supports your work. You know—the thing you say to people you haven’t seen in a while, but never really expect to follow through on. But then I asked a guy friend what it meant. He was impressed with the move—gleeful even on the successful employment of a male staple.
O said that the beauty of a comment like that is that it could mean interest, but it doesn’t put anything out there. Improv guy doesn’t have to commit to interest until he finds out if I’m interested. If there is interest, then there is a low pressure exploration of interest, and if there isn’t, he gets a drink with a friend.
And none of this matters all that much because Improv guy doesn’t get back into the country for another couple of weeks, at which point, he’s unlikely to remember the offer anyway.
I hate this. I am in no way cut out for this. It’s already too much work. This is what I need. I need a man to put to parchment his undying appreciation for me (both my intellect and my adorable frumpiness), and then he needs to expressly detail his intentions (which should be mostly pure and involve a sonnet). Of course, he can’t be too genteel, so I’d like him to also express his desire to build something for me out of wood after saving the world on his next secret mission.
No, I don’t think I’m asking too much. It’s nothing more than I am willing to do myself :)
Kate
First the update. FFOM reappeared. Fabulous. As you may recall, when last we visited the joy of FFOM, I was enjoying (and by enjoying, I mean screaming in annoyance) official radio silence. He missed the movie screening, despite the fact that he was in the movie and had been looking forward to the event.
Anyway, he reappeared. He emailed me and apologized for missing the event—he was stuck working, and couldn’t escape for the screening (not to mention the 4 hour round trip from San Diego). On the upside, he gave me another email address and asked (more than once over the course of the email) for me to contact him. He even told me that this email address rolled directly to his phone, so it would be easier for him to stay in touch with me.
After careful analysis with friends (hey, I’m a girl, it’s what I do), I decided that my dance card wasn’t all that full, and that I would respond to him. So, I did. I emailed him. I was charming (as charming as I can be), and planted questions so he could feel free to discuss his work, passions, desire for me, etc.
Yeah.
That was three weeks ago. Once again, radio silence. I have no doubt he is really busy with work. I certainly understand that. However, I think I’m going to have to finally write him off. If it is this hard to get his attention now during the potential courting phase, actually dating him would seem to be a tricky prospect.
Now, for the confusion.
I think I was asked out. Sort of. I think. Maybe. Possibly. Oy.
I went to see the improv show of an acquaintance—a very attractive, intelligent and funny acquaintance who also happens to male. I don’t know if he’s single. I think he’s single. I’m sure he’s not married. Ok, I’m not sure of that either, but he doesn’t wear a ring, and he’s never mentioned a wife.
I arrived at the event, and immediately felt completely sick—indicating either a continuing stomach problem (most likely), or nerves that would rattle even the earthquake retrofitted buildings of LA (also entirely possible). I was feeling so bad that I was just about to turn tail and run back to my car, when he saw me. Swell—I was going to have to stick it out.
The show was fun, and he was good in it—and when it was over, I absolutely wanted to get out of there and do the “oh, woe is me” in my apartment. But I forced myself to at least talk to him afterwards. And then it happened. He said “We should go get a drink when I get back into town”. Without thinking about it, I said “Sure!”. We completed some small talk, and then I ran back to my car.
During the run back to the car, all of a sudden I thought—did he just ask me out? And this is what I am posing to you all. Did he just ask me out?
At first I thought it was just one of those things you say to someone who you sort of know, who supports your work. You know—the thing you say to people you haven’t seen in a while, but never really expect to follow through on. But then I asked a guy friend what it meant. He was impressed with the move—gleeful even on the successful employment of a male staple.
O said that the beauty of a comment like that is that it could mean interest, but it doesn’t put anything out there. Improv guy doesn’t have to commit to interest until he finds out if I’m interested. If there is interest, then there is a low pressure exploration of interest, and if there isn’t, he gets a drink with a friend.
And none of this matters all that much because Improv guy doesn’t get back into the country for another couple of weeks, at which point, he’s unlikely to remember the offer anyway.
I hate this. I am in no way cut out for this. It’s already too much work. This is what I need. I need a man to put to parchment his undying appreciation for me (both my intellect and my adorable frumpiness), and then he needs to expressly detail his intentions (which should be mostly pure and involve a sonnet). Of course, he can’t be too genteel, so I’d like him to also express his desire to build something for me out of wood after saving the world on his next secret mission.
No, I don’t think I’m asking too much. It’s nothing more than I am willing to do myself :)
Kate
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Love Those Rules!
While reading this blog, I discovered the shoes. I won’t lie. I don’t understand these shoes. I don’t know how I’d get into these shoes. I don’t know how I would walk in these shoes. And I am absolutely sure that I have nothing that would go with these shoes.
But I want these shoes.
Why? You are screaming right now that there is a reason this blogger has chosen to point out the fugly bedazzled gladiator wedges.
I understand this. I do. And even though I have a zero on the world’s scale of fashion sense, I get that these would not be a good look for me—although it might make me close to human size while standing on them, so they might be worth consideration just for that.
No, I’m not proclaiming the beauty of these shoes. I am, however, proclaiming the insanity that these shoes would evoke at work.
I work in a fairly conservative environment, and I am doing battle against the evil forces of the dress code gods. It’s not that I always lose these battles, but well… ok, I do always lose these battles. And I’m not a fashion person, but the specific rules are silly. I get that we can’t wear shorts to work. I get that we can’t wear formal/suit shorts to work. I get that we can’t wear tight knee length pants to work. I get that I can’t wear a track suit. But the Capri pants rule made me cranky.
At first it was no Capri pants—every store had them out here, but we weren’t allowed to wear them. The staff got nowhere, but some of the lawyers managed to make headway. Except now there is a length rule. Seriously. Someone had the time to ponder the appropriate length of the Capri pants. One inch above the ankle apparently means business. An inch and a half above the ankle is a scandal. I am not kidding. I got called out for a pair of Ann Taylor (you know how daring those clothes are) Capri pants because they were nearly an inch and a half above my ankle. When I’m feeling particularly persnickety, I wear them anyway. It’s like my little dare—my little attempt at rebellion.
That’s right—this is an example of my rebellion. Some people drink heavily, do drugs, do boys 20 years younger—I wear Capri pants that are an inch and half above my ankle.
Not surprisingly, there are also shoe rules. Although when first announced, I do believe the shoe rules could only be accurately interpreted by NASA scientists. There were rules about wedges, to cork or not to cork, and something diabolical involving an open toe meaning no open back, and vice versa.
People, I leave for work at around 6:15 to 6:30am. I’m lucky if my clothes don’t clash and are on right-side-out. If I have make-up on, it is a banner day. If jewelry becomes involved it should be noted on a national level—some sort of holiday or celebration involving fireworks would be most appropriate. I do not have time (nor the wits) to examine my shoes to make sure they don’t violate any of the 3,000 shoe rules on the dress code.
This brings us back to those shoes. While obviously inappropriate for all things relating to my office, they do not technically violate any written rules—good taste, perhaps, but no written rules. HA! I need to find these shoes.
Also not in the written rules—tutus. They say nothing about wearing ballet tutus to work. You know I’m done with the place the day I show up in those shoes, and pink tulle.
But for the moment, I jest. I love these rules that were clearly defined by people far smarter than I. Please don’t fire me.
Kate
But I want these shoes.
Why? You are screaming right now that there is a reason this blogger has chosen to point out the fugly bedazzled gladiator wedges.
I understand this. I do. And even though I have a zero on the world’s scale of fashion sense, I get that these would not be a good look for me—although it might make me close to human size while standing on them, so they might be worth consideration just for that.
No, I’m not proclaiming the beauty of these shoes. I am, however, proclaiming the insanity that these shoes would evoke at work.
I work in a fairly conservative environment, and I am doing battle against the evil forces of the dress code gods. It’s not that I always lose these battles, but well… ok, I do always lose these battles. And I’m not a fashion person, but the specific rules are silly. I get that we can’t wear shorts to work. I get that we can’t wear formal/suit shorts to work. I get that we can’t wear tight knee length pants to work. I get that I can’t wear a track suit. But the Capri pants rule made me cranky.
At first it was no Capri pants—every store had them out here, but we weren’t allowed to wear them. The staff got nowhere, but some of the lawyers managed to make headway. Except now there is a length rule. Seriously. Someone had the time to ponder the appropriate length of the Capri pants. One inch above the ankle apparently means business. An inch and a half above the ankle is a scandal. I am not kidding. I got called out for a pair of Ann Taylor (you know how daring those clothes are) Capri pants because they were nearly an inch and a half above my ankle. When I’m feeling particularly persnickety, I wear them anyway. It’s like my little dare—my little attempt at rebellion.
That’s right—this is an example of my rebellion. Some people drink heavily, do drugs, do boys 20 years younger—I wear Capri pants that are an inch and half above my ankle.
Not surprisingly, there are also shoe rules. Although when first announced, I do believe the shoe rules could only be accurately interpreted by NASA scientists. There were rules about wedges, to cork or not to cork, and something diabolical involving an open toe meaning no open back, and vice versa.
People, I leave for work at around 6:15 to 6:30am. I’m lucky if my clothes don’t clash and are on right-side-out. If I have make-up on, it is a banner day. If jewelry becomes involved it should be noted on a national level—some sort of holiday or celebration involving fireworks would be most appropriate. I do not have time (nor the wits) to examine my shoes to make sure they don’t violate any of the 3,000 shoe rules on the dress code.
This brings us back to those shoes. While obviously inappropriate for all things relating to my office, they do not technically violate any written rules—good taste, perhaps, but no written rules. HA! I need to find these shoes.
Also not in the written rules—tutus. They say nothing about wearing ballet tutus to work. You know I’m done with the place the day I show up in those shoes, and pink tulle.
But for the moment, I jest. I love these rules that were clearly defined by people far smarter than I. Please don’t fire me.
Kate
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Some Fantasy
Look… I’m a single woman… very single… for a long, long, long (seemingly interminable) time. So, it’s only reasonable that occasionally a fantasy might creep into sleepy time.
Mine last night featured Brad Pitt and George Clooney. Nice.
It started like many probably do for the thousands of women who have dreamed of these two, and other men. They noticed me. I noticed them. They leave all the really famous and important people around them to come talk to me about the book I’m reading.
Yep, even in the fantasy, I’m sitting in a corner reading a book while everyone else on the planet (or at least the fantasy) is at a party.
They are dressed well, and looking good. They make their approach. Obviously, I only have eyes for George, so it’s possible that’s how I missed that in the fantasy, Brad Pitt was suddenly shorter than I am. And I’m short. Picture the shortest person you know and make them lumpy. That’s me.
So, normally attractive, fit, nearly 6 feet tall Brad has been reduced to mini-Brad. I’ve stood up to talk to him, and I actually have to look down. In fact, it seems like Brad continues to shrink throughout the conversation. But when he walks away, he’s full grown Brad size, again. Hmmmm
No matter. George is now making his approach. Everyone else is casual in the dream, but George is wearing a tux. Well, sure. I’m willing to bet that even as he’s lounging around the house he’s wearing a tux and mixing martinis. Plus, his tux explains why I am now wearing something akin to 1950’s semi-formal wear and white gloves.
And it’s magical. Sort of. I’m definitely talking to him, and he seems to be laughing with me instead of at me. But I keep sniffling. As in every time I say something to him, I’m sniffling. I mean, I’m sniffling to the point that when he introduces me to his friend he asks “have you met the sniffling girl?”
And that was it. That was the extent of the big fantasy. I had him. I had his attention, and my wildest imagination worked up that I had hayfever.
Pathetic.
Kate
Mine last night featured Brad Pitt and George Clooney. Nice.
It started like many probably do for the thousands of women who have dreamed of these two, and other men. They noticed me. I noticed them. They leave all the really famous and important people around them to come talk to me about the book I’m reading.
Yep, even in the fantasy, I’m sitting in a corner reading a book while everyone else on the planet (or at least the fantasy) is at a party.
They are dressed well, and looking good. They make their approach. Obviously, I only have eyes for George, so it’s possible that’s how I missed that in the fantasy, Brad Pitt was suddenly shorter than I am. And I’m short. Picture the shortest person you know and make them lumpy. That’s me.
So, normally attractive, fit, nearly 6 feet tall Brad has been reduced to mini-Brad. I’ve stood up to talk to him, and I actually have to look down. In fact, it seems like Brad continues to shrink throughout the conversation. But when he walks away, he’s full grown Brad size, again. Hmmmm
No matter. George is now making his approach. Everyone else is casual in the dream, but George is wearing a tux. Well, sure. I’m willing to bet that even as he’s lounging around the house he’s wearing a tux and mixing martinis. Plus, his tux explains why I am now wearing something akin to 1950’s semi-formal wear and white gloves.
And it’s magical. Sort of. I’m definitely talking to him, and he seems to be laughing with me instead of at me. But I keep sniffling. As in every time I say something to him, I’m sniffling. I mean, I’m sniffling to the point that when he introduces me to his friend he asks “have you met the sniffling girl?”
And that was it. That was the extent of the big fantasy. I had him. I had his attention, and my wildest imagination worked up that I had hayfever.
Pathetic.
Kate
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Strike 2
Strike 2
Strike 2 in my newly reinvigorated quest for a date in Los Angeles (or is this strike 2340? I’m losing track) came at a charity event. Apparently, Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson have cursed my luck at their baseball field. It’s incredibly disappointing because I really like them ;)
Ok, technically, they had nothing to do with it, but their baseball field did play a key role.
My friend K sent around a notice at the office saying that she was playing in a charity baseball game, and she was looking for sponsors. It’s this great charity that combines at risk kids with animals that have been rescued and need training. I decided this would be an excellent event to casually meet people, and learn more about the charity. Plus, I could torment K later if she was anywhere as bad at baseball as she claimed (she was not).
Now, you have to remember—I don’t like people, so this was a big move for me. I was willingly setting myself up for a social situation where I would know only one person. I would have to socialize, and I would have to be pleasant. Some days, this is asking a lot of me. Luckily I was feeling gamey on Saturday (as opposed to smelling gamey, which I understand is a bad thing).
As I arrived at the Tom Hanks/Rita Wilson baseball diamond, I almost made a slightly bigger entrance than originally planned. I walked up the stairs and directly into the outfield. For those of you who are not baseball fans, this is a bad thing and can involve balls flying at your head (and no, not in a good way). Luckily, I was able to duck back down the stairs and find another way up to the game before accidentally becoming a player for the wrong team.
Another benefit of a charity baseball game—lots of charitable men. You know the charmers there like animals, are pro-charity, and are at least semi-athletic. Sweet! Shortly after finding K and actually talking to the people sitting around us (I know, shocking!), I thought I spotted a gentleman I knew. Wrong. Didn’t know him, but I decided that I absolutely would like to.
So, game was seriously on. I was ready. I was prepared to be engaging, plus I was wearing a tank top. I figured if I couldn’t appeal to his sense of humor, at least I could appeal to his sense of cleavage. You have to understand—I wasn’t looking for much. All I wanted was some acknowledgement from a male that I was female, and not a horrible alternative to life he was currently leading. And if that didn’t happen, I was also willing to accept a smile, or even a polite nod in my direction.
Midway through the game, I found out the charmer was also employed. By the way he kept checking his blackberry when he came off the field, I narrowed him down to lawyer, agent, manager or studio exec. He was also one of the better players, and looking even more enticing when he began to sweat.
I smiled in his direction. He went up to bat and hit a double. I’d like to think he did it for me, but… yeah, no, I’d still like to think he did it for me. This continued throughout the game, and I managed to quiz K for all the info she knew. Ok, that was actually nothing, but she did observe that he was good friends with the guy who runs the charity. Excellent. At least there would be a source of intel.
The game ended, Charmer and K’s team won, and there was joy in mudville. Despite my ban on all eating in public, I agreed with K that joining the teams and supporters at the post-game luncheon would be a fabulous idea. We decided to walk slowly up to the buffet so that we could casually stroll up with Charmer.
But Charmer wasn’t coming with us. He was now calling into the office, and looking disturbingly like he had to go into work. Not to worry—K and I would figure out a way to talk to him. Any minute, we were going to work it out. Any… yep, any time… uh…
K and I officially had no game. Zero. Two adult females reduced to 12 year olds chatting in a corner hopping that the cute boy talks to us on his own—that was us. I blame T—she’s the one with game, and she had chosen that moment to go to the bathroom.
We lost him. He said his goodbyes and left. As he was walking away, T rejoined us, and she instantly had about 15 really good openings for me. Swell, only 2 minutes too late. But we had one more shot—the guy who runs the charity. K decided that intel gathering would be her way of making up for her lack of play.
Well, I was right, he was a lawyer. He was virtually age appropriate. He was also recently reconciled with his wife (which explains the lack of ring, I suppose), and not even a remote possibility for me.
Swing and a miss, again.
Kate, who did manage to score a sunburn, in LA
Strike 2 in my newly reinvigorated quest for a date in Los Angeles (or is this strike 2340? I’m losing track) came at a charity event. Apparently, Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson have cursed my luck at their baseball field. It’s incredibly disappointing because I really like them ;)
Ok, technically, they had nothing to do with it, but their baseball field did play a key role.
My friend K sent around a notice at the office saying that she was playing in a charity baseball game, and she was looking for sponsors. It’s this great charity that combines at risk kids with animals that have been rescued and need training. I decided this would be an excellent event to casually meet people, and learn more about the charity. Plus, I could torment K later if she was anywhere as bad at baseball as she claimed (she was not).
Now, you have to remember—I don’t like people, so this was a big move for me. I was willingly setting myself up for a social situation where I would know only one person. I would have to socialize, and I would have to be pleasant. Some days, this is asking a lot of me. Luckily I was feeling gamey on Saturday (as opposed to smelling gamey, which I understand is a bad thing).
As I arrived at the Tom Hanks/Rita Wilson baseball diamond, I almost made a slightly bigger entrance than originally planned. I walked up the stairs and directly into the outfield. For those of you who are not baseball fans, this is a bad thing and can involve balls flying at your head (and no, not in a good way). Luckily, I was able to duck back down the stairs and find another way up to the game before accidentally becoming a player for the wrong team.
Another benefit of a charity baseball game—lots of charitable men. You know the charmers there like animals, are pro-charity, and are at least semi-athletic. Sweet! Shortly after finding K and actually talking to the people sitting around us (I know, shocking!), I thought I spotted a gentleman I knew. Wrong. Didn’t know him, but I decided that I absolutely would like to.
So, game was seriously on. I was ready. I was prepared to be engaging, plus I was wearing a tank top. I figured if I couldn’t appeal to his sense of humor, at least I could appeal to his sense of cleavage. You have to understand—I wasn’t looking for much. All I wanted was some acknowledgement from a male that I was female, and not a horrible alternative to life he was currently leading. And if that didn’t happen, I was also willing to accept a smile, or even a polite nod in my direction.
Midway through the game, I found out the charmer was also employed. By the way he kept checking his blackberry when he came off the field, I narrowed him down to lawyer, agent, manager or studio exec. He was also one of the better players, and looking even more enticing when he began to sweat.
I smiled in his direction. He went up to bat and hit a double. I’d like to think he did it for me, but… yeah, no, I’d still like to think he did it for me. This continued throughout the game, and I managed to quiz K for all the info she knew. Ok, that was actually nothing, but she did observe that he was good friends with the guy who runs the charity. Excellent. At least there would be a source of intel.
The game ended, Charmer and K’s team won, and there was joy in mudville. Despite my ban on all eating in public, I agreed with K that joining the teams and supporters at the post-game luncheon would be a fabulous idea. We decided to walk slowly up to the buffet so that we could casually stroll up with Charmer.
But Charmer wasn’t coming with us. He was now calling into the office, and looking disturbingly like he had to go into work. Not to worry—K and I would figure out a way to talk to him. Any minute, we were going to work it out. Any… yep, any time… uh…
K and I officially had no game. Zero. Two adult females reduced to 12 year olds chatting in a corner hopping that the cute boy talks to us on his own—that was us. I blame T—she’s the one with game, and she had chosen that moment to go to the bathroom.
We lost him. He said his goodbyes and left. As he was walking away, T rejoined us, and she instantly had about 15 really good openings for me. Swell, only 2 minutes too late. But we had one more shot—the guy who runs the charity. K decided that intel gathering would be her way of making up for her lack of play.
Well, I was right, he was a lawyer. He was virtually age appropriate. He was also recently reconciled with his wife (which explains the lack of ring, I suppose), and not even a remote possibility for me.
Swing and a miss, again.
Kate, who did manage to score a sunburn, in LA
Friday, June 29, 2007
Foiled
After I returned to Los Angeles, I had about 3 days to get ready for the small screening and reception that I was helping to plan. I thought that this was the best possible time to try out my new found “will date” energy. I was determined to hit the ground running. As it turned out, the ground did most of the hitting.
The plan was sound. Since I was allowed to invite people, and I knew the standing invite list, I could stack the deck in my favor. I thought there were two gentleman callers of real possibility, with a third being potentially troublesome, but worth considering.
That’s three men—all seemingly single, invited to the same event, who know me (at least a little bit), who seem pleasant. Game was on!
The first responded to the invitation, and was bringing a date. Ok, fine. I eliminated him from the potential dating pool. He was probably too young for me, anyway. Also, he was probably too good looking for me. It’s not that I don’t like great looking guys—it’s just that they don’t often look in my direction when there are hordes of 23 year old models here in LA as alternate choices.
The second responded to me, but brought a buddy. Hard to work the party, work the flirt and focus the flirt in a non-obvious way around the buddy. Plus, I was sort of banned from dating him by a mutual friend a while ago, so maybe it was for the best.
The third—here would be gold. I was sure of it. Remember this guy: http://katedating.blogspot.com/search?q=kate+talks+to+a+boy ?
Fine Figure of Man was on the invite list. We’ve chatted over email periodically. He flirted a little. I flirted lamely. But still, there was some flirt precedence. When I had emailed him a month earlier, he was excited at the prospect of the screening—not a surprise, he is in the movie.
I didn’t want to leave anything to chance, though. So, when I got back into town, I emailed him just to express my pleasure that his screen debut was soon to arrive.
Nothing.
I monitored the invitation RSVP list.
Crickets.
I went back to myspace, and his last log in date was actually a couple of days before I got back to LA. Hmmmmm.
Still, not to be deterred, I figured that he would just appear at the screening, and I added him to the list as a precaution. I mean, I couldn’t have him turned away on a “not on the list” technicality. Sure, the people working the door would recognize him from the film, but I was taking no chances.
And apparently, I was taking no offers for dates either because he didn’t come. He never responded to the earlier myspace missive. Official radio silence.
There are clearly a million reasons why he didn’t come up for the screening—many, many reasons, and at least two or three that would be good enough for me. But the question now stands—do I continue to casually contact him anyway? For instance, some sort of gentle and charming inquiry such as “Where the hell were you?”
Not that I want to seem clingy, critical and demanding right away—I like to save that for the actual relationship.
What say you?
Kate’s love score: 0 for 3
Kate, feeling mildly stood up, in LA
The plan was sound. Since I was allowed to invite people, and I knew the standing invite list, I could stack the deck in my favor. I thought there were two gentleman callers of real possibility, with a third being potentially troublesome, but worth considering.
That’s three men—all seemingly single, invited to the same event, who know me (at least a little bit), who seem pleasant. Game was on!
The first responded to the invitation, and was bringing a date. Ok, fine. I eliminated him from the potential dating pool. He was probably too young for me, anyway. Also, he was probably too good looking for me. It’s not that I don’t like great looking guys—it’s just that they don’t often look in my direction when there are hordes of 23 year old models here in LA as alternate choices.
The second responded to me, but brought a buddy. Hard to work the party, work the flirt and focus the flirt in a non-obvious way around the buddy. Plus, I was sort of banned from dating him by a mutual friend a while ago, so maybe it was for the best.
The third—here would be gold. I was sure of it. Remember this guy: http://katedating.blogspot.com/search?q=kate+talks+to+a+boy ?
Fine Figure of Man was on the invite list. We’ve chatted over email periodically. He flirted a little. I flirted lamely. But still, there was some flirt precedence. When I had emailed him a month earlier, he was excited at the prospect of the screening—not a surprise, he is in the movie.
I didn’t want to leave anything to chance, though. So, when I got back into town, I emailed him just to express my pleasure that his screen debut was soon to arrive.
Nothing.
I monitored the invitation RSVP list.
Crickets.
I went back to myspace, and his last log in date was actually a couple of days before I got back to LA. Hmmmmm.
Still, not to be deterred, I figured that he would just appear at the screening, and I added him to the list as a precaution. I mean, I couldn’t have him turned away on a “not on the list” technicality. Sure, the people working the door would recognize him from the film, but I was taking no chances.
And apparently, I was taking no offers for dates either because he didn’t come. He never responded to the earlier myspace missive. Official radio silence.
There are clearly a million reasons why he didn’t come up for the screening—many, many reasons, and at least two or three that would be good enough for me. But the question now stands—do I continue to casually contact him anyway? For instance, some sort of gentle and charming inquiry such as “Where the hell were you?”
Not that I want to seem clingy, critical and demanding right away—I like to save that for the actual relationship.
What say you?
Kate’s love score: 0 for 3
Kate, feeling mildly stood up, in LA
Friday, June 22, 2007
Part 2: The Weekend
Two days before I was supposed to leave town his name showed up on the reservation list. What had been an overwhelming feeling was 100% confirmed. And I was calm. Ready. And in many ways looking forward to spending time with him, as well as our other friends, in a place where time really has stood still.
Alas, the lives of its graduates have not stood still, and suddenly I was struck with the thought—what if he isn’t alone? I mean, it isn’t unreasonable that he would want to bring his “very nearly wife” to campus with him. Sure, she’d been there before, and their wedding was coming up, but still… I was ready to say goodbye. I was ready to accept all the changes. I was ready to move to friend mode.
However, I was not ready to spend the weekend with his almost wife. I was really not ready to spend the weekend in the room next to him and his almost wife. Because you know that’s how it would work. I had just figured out that the classes closest to each other would be staying in the same building. Which meant that in an act of malfeasance, the universe would have been tapping its fingers together and saying “ah, yes, I know exactly how this should go…”
Needless to say, I sent a very quick note off to a mutual friend to find out. His reply was “he hasn’t mentioned it” and then “he doesn’t know if she’s coming”. He doesn’t know? He doesn’t know? How do you not know these things? Thankfully, our delightful mutual friend offered to change rooms with me if the worst happened.
It didn’t. He came alone.
I had been on campus for about 45 minutes, when I headed back to a lounge to wait for our mutual friend, O, to arrive. I had no idea when The Ex was getting into town, but since he typically arrived everywhere at the last minute when we were dating, I figured I had at least the evening and part of the next day.
I was wrong.
I was sitting there, and I noticed someone come through the first set of doors. I didn’t see his face. But I knew. Something about the way this man moved—his stride, demeanor, something immediately struck awareness in me. I was frozen.
And there he was.
He kept walking toward the elevators, but said hello to me in passing, as any polite individual would. I sort of laughed and said “Hi” (bringing out my big linguistic guns for this one). And then, there we were. Realizing it was me, he dropped his bags, came down into the lounge and then the music swelled. We pledged our undying love and eloped.
Yeah, nice try. In the movie of my life, that will be my choice. The reality, while not cinematic, was still something I’ll replay in moments of weakness, I’m sure. It was a hug—a totally enveloping, pick me off the floor, still feel it in the morning, hug. The Ex is almost a foot taller than I am, and while the man may have his faults, he knows how to hug.
The next sentence out of my mouth wasn’t a declaration of love, or a jump into nostalgia. It was “so, I guess this answers the question of whether or not you’re coming”. It was met with humor, and a good dose of confusion as he did not realize his presence had ever been up for debate, or a subject of concern. He was, after all, off living his life while internal drama had settled in on the west coast. Apparently, he hadn’t picked up those mind reading skills that I often wished he had when we were together.
For the next three days, The Ex, O, other friends and I played. We reminisced, and enjoyed the days like real life, work, rent and aged ovaries held no concern. At one point, before the big gala, O asked me if I was going to try to talk The Ex out of his impending marriage. The answer was no. Nor was there ever a hint of impropriety.
How about awkwardness, you ask?
Yeah. There were a couple moments of that. We didn’t discuss his almost wife for the first day, or so. I could tell that he was trying to keep that low key, presumably out of deference to my feelings. I avoided it because… well, because that’s what I do. You should probably know that he and I had never discussed her. No back and forth—ever. Contact that I’ve had with him by email over the last year has been friendly, but solely focused on his career, mine, etc.
Finally, I decided that not talking about it was getting a bit silly, and it was time for me to stop flinching. So, as we were walking ahead of the group, I said to him “I’ve been avoiding the subject because I hate the idea of you marrying someone else, but tell me about her”. And with a nod of acknowledgement, he did.
And I lived.
To be honest, I do hope he’s happy, and I hope that she is amazing. I’d be hurt if this was just a timing thing. I want her to be the best thing that is ever happened to him.
So, the weekend went on. I was never back in my room before 2 am—shocking given my penchant for being tucked in by 9pm at the latest. It was fun, and for the most part, I just let the rest go.
Memorable moments?
The weekend was full of new experiences with old friends, and lots of plans, mostly professional ones, for the future. But there was one story told by a new friend, that I have to share.
This girl, who I had never met, knew O and had met The Ex, years ago (probably 5-6 years into our relationship). I have no idea where I was, probably working, but the three of them had gone with some other friends to a baseball game. When O introduced us, she said—“wait, you’re The Ex’s Kate”? At which point, all the people there who knew him, and didn’t know that he and I had dated, figured it out fairly quickly. The girl explained that she didn’t know me, barely knew him, but by the end of the game, she knew all about The Ex’s Kate. She knew I was a dancer. She knew where I had worked. She knew what I hoped to do. She knew everything about me. And she said she was thrilled to finally put a face to a name.
I didn’t really say much, other than that was really sweet to hear. But inside, there was part of my brain that kicked in and started nudging me. I’m not sure why, but I think I had convinced myself that the relationship hadn’t meant all that much to him. I mean, he was the one who finally decided to end it. Part of my brain found it easier to accept that it hadn’t mattered rather than accept that he loved me, but didn’t think it could work. So, to realize that he had been proud enough of the relationship to talk someone’s ear off about it was a bit of surprise. I think at this point, something in me started to shift.
Of course, he is still a guy, so he nearly needed to be smacked regardless of all of his exemplary work to that point. Why do boys speak? Seriously. I can’t tell you how many times over the years when things were going along smoothly only to be derailed because he spoke.
We were walking over to a picnic (O, The Ex and I) when The Ex started telling a story involving me and some campus fun many moons ago. Just as hilarity was about to ensue, he accidentally inserted the name of his almost wife into the story instead of mine. That’s right, ladies, he called me by her name. And he didn’t notice. He just kept talking. Meanwhile, I literally gasped and put my hand over my mouth to physically stop myself from vocalizing my…um…surprise. And O looked over at me immediately to see if he had heard correctly. Actually, he had that look on his face that said – If I weren’t a white, late 30 something, straight male, I’d be yelling “Oh, no, he din’t” and snapping my fingers right now.
Naturally, I demurely refrained from interrupting the story so as not to embarrass him.
Yeah, right! In my new role of friend, rather than supportive girlfriend, I so called him on it! And he was suitably mortified and apologetic. Ha! You better be buddy, if you ….
This one slightly dicey moment aside (thank goodness I was wearing my “so dealing with it” lipstick), I loved the weekend. I saw old friends. I made new contacts, and I played, which I do so little of in my day to day life. But more than that, I got something that I somehow knew I needed—more time. I had the chance to spend three and a half more days with someone I love. I was granted days of hugs, stories and friendship, and I was granted a measure of peace. I realized after days of really listening to him that he wasn’t just important to me, but that I had been important to him.
I’m not saying there weren’t some tears when we said goodbye. But we said the things that needed to be said.
And I let him go.
Alas, the lives of its graduates have not stood still, and suddenly I was struck with the thought—what if he isn’t alone? I mean, it isn’t unreasonable that he would want to bring his “very nearly wife” to campus with him. Sure, she’d been there before, and their wedding was coming up, but still… I was ready to say goodbye. I was ready to accept all the changes. I was ready to move to friend mode.
However, I was not ready to spend the weekend with his almost wife. I was really not ready to spend the weekend in the room next to him and his almost wife. Because you know that’s how it would work. I had just figured out that the classes closest to each other would be staying in the same building. Which meant that in an act of malfeasance, the universe would have been tapping its fingers together and saying “ah, yes, I know exactly how this should go…”
Needless to say, I sent a very quick note off to a mutual friend to find out. His reply was “he hasn’t mentioned it” and then “he doesn’t know if she’s coming”. He doesn’t know? He doesn’t know? How do you not know these things? Thankfully, our delightful mutual friend offered to change rooms with me if the worst happened.
It didn’t. He came alone.
I had been on campus for about 45 minutes, when I headed back to a lounge to wait for our mutual friend, O, to arrive. I had no idea when The Ex was getting into town, but since he typically arrived everywhere at the last minute when we were dating, I figured I had at least the evening and part of the next day.
I was wrong.
I was sitting there, and I noticed someone come through the first set of doors. I didn’t see his face. But I knew. Something about the way this man moved—his stride, demeanor, something immediately struck awareness in me. I was frozen.
And there he was.
He kept walking toward the elevators, but said hello to me in passing, as any polite individual would. I sort of laughed and said “Hi” (bringing out my big linguistic guns for this one). And then, there we were. Realizing it was me, he dropped his bags, came down into the lounge and then the music swelled. We pledged our undying love and eloped.
Yeah, nice try. In the movie of my life, that will be my choice. The reality, while not cinematic, was still something I’ll replay in moments of weakness, I’m sure. It was a hug—a totally enveloping, pick me off the floor, still feel it in the morning, hug. The Ex is almost a foot taller than I am, and while the man may have his faults, he knows how to hug.
The next sentence out of my mouth wasn’t a declaration of love, or a jump into nostalgia. It was “so, I guess this answers the question of whether or not you’re coming”. It was met with humor, and a good dose of confusion as he did not realize his presence had ever been up for debate, or a subject of concern. He was, after all, off living his life while internal drama had settled in on the west coast. Apparently, he hadn’t picked up those mind reading skills that I often wished he had when we were together.
For the next three days, The Ex, O, other friends and I played. We reminisced, and enjoyed the days like real life, work, rent and aged ovaries held no concern. At one point, before the big gala, O asked me if I was going to try to talk The Ex out of his impending marriage. The answer was no. Nor was there ever a hint of impropriety.
How about awkwardness, you ask?
Yeah. There were a couple moments of that. We didn’t discuss his almost wife for the first day, or so. I could tell that he was trying to keep that low key, presumably out of deference to my feelings. I avoided it because… well, because that’s what I do. You should probably know that he and I had never discussed her. No back and forth—ever. Contact that I’ve had with him by email over the last year has been friendly, but solely focused on his career, mine, etc.
Finally, I decided that not talking about it was getting a bit silly, and it was time for me to stop flinching. So, as we were walking ahead of the group, I said to him “I’ve been avoiding the subject because I hate the idea of you marrying someone else, but tell me about her”. And with a nod of acknowledgement, he did.
And I lived.
To be honest, I do hope he’s happy, and I hope that she is amazing. I’d be hurt if this was just a timing thing. I want her to be the best thing that is ever happened to him.
So, the weekend went on. I was never back in my room before 2 am—shocking given my penchant for being tucked in by 9pm at the latest. It was fun, and for the most part, I just let the rest go.
Memorable moments?
The weekend was full of new experiences with old friends, and lots of plans, mostly professional ones, for the future. But there was one story told by a new friend, that I have to share.
This girl, who I had never met, knew O and had met The Ex, years ago (probably 5-6 years into our relationship). I have no idea where I was, probably working, but the three of them had gone with some other friends to a baseball game. When O introduced us, she said—“wait, you’re The Ex’s Kate”? At which point, all the people there who knew him, and didn’t know that he and I had dated, figured it out fairly quickly. The girl explained that she didn’t know me, barely knew him, but by the end of the game, she knew all about The Ex’s Kate. She knew I was a dancer. She knew where I had worked. She knew what I hoped to do. She knew everything about me. And she said she was thrilled to finally put a face to a name.
I didn’t really say much, other than that was really sweet to hear. But inside, there was part of my brain that kicked in and started nudging me. I’m not sure why, but I think I had convinced myself that the relationship hadn’t meant all that much to him. I mean, he was the one who finally decided to end it. Part of my brain found it easier to accept that it hadn’t mattered rather than accept that he loved me, but didn’t think it could work. So, to realize that he had been proud enough of the relationship to talk someone’s ear off about it was a bit of surprise. I think at this point, something in me started to shift.
Of course, he is still a guy, so he nearly needed to be smacked regardless of all of his exemplary work to that point. Why do boys speak? Seriously. I can’t tell you how many times over the years when things were going along smoothly only to be derailed because he spoke.
We were walking over to a picnic (O, The Ex and I) when The Ex started telling a story involving me and some campus fun many moons ago. Just as hilarity was about to ensue, he accidentally inserted the name of his almost wife into the story instead of mine. That’s right, ladies, he called me by her name. And he didn’t notice. He just kept talking. Meanwhile, I literally gasped and put my hand over my mouth to physically stop myself from vocalizing my…um…surprise. And O looked over at me immediately to see if he had heard correctly. Actually, he had that look on his face that said – If I weren’t a white, late 30 something, straight male, I’d be yelling “Oh, no, he din’t” and snapping my fingers right now.
Naturally, I demurely refrained from interrupting the story so as not to embarrass him.
Yeah, right! In my new role of friend, rather than supportive girlfriend, I so called him on it! And he was suitably mortified and apologetic. Ha! You better be buddy, if you ….
This one slightly dicey moment aside (thank goodness I was wearing my “so dealing with it” lipstick), I loved the weekend. I saw old friends. I made new contacts, and I played, which I do so little of in my day to day life. But more than that, I got something that I somehow knew I needed—more time. I had the chance to spend three and a half more days with someone I love. I was granted days of hugs, stories and friendship, and I was granted a measure of peace. I realized after days of really listening to him that he wasn’t just important to me, but that I had been important to him.
I’m not saying there weren’t some tears when we said goodbye. But we said the things that needed to be said.
And I let him go.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Part 1: The Decision
Wow. It has been a while. Where the hell have I been? Little Miss Anti-social had a packed calendar all of a sudden. While it did not include George Clooney (woe is me), it did include party planning, visiting family, shopping, spending every waking moment for 3 days with The Ex, a movie screening and the discovery of a fabulous new nail polish.
Whew! Busy times. So, what do you want to know about? LOL! Yeah, I know. I know. The nail polish. Ok, it is a barely there pink called “Jane”. I rarely go girlie, but it goes with almost everything.
Are those cyber-darts you are lobbing at me like mini-grenades? ;)
Remember this post (http://katedating.blogspot.com/2007_03_01_archive.html) I made months ago? It was a passing thought that for no reason that made sense to me at the time, wouldn’t leave me alone. The “what if” just kept swirling around me—coming over me at the strangest times. It was as though storm clouds were heading my way and the wind was whispering “something wicked this way comes”.
You see even though I didn’t know I’d see him, a part of me did know. In fact, apparently, a part of me knew back in October. My friend B said, in reference to the drama with The Ex: “Well, at least the drama is over—you wont ever see him again”. My response? “It’s not over”.
Sometimes you just know.
We are on opposite sides of the country. We have no mutual friends in each other’s respective states. Most of our mutual friends are already married. And I was certainly not getting an invitation to his nuptials (which are Saturday, for those of you playing along at home).
I just knew.
I can see the Greek Chorus swaying in the background shouting “why didn’t you just run?”
I tried not to go. No really, an actual try. Not a half-hearted, kind of “no, I shouldn’t” while giggling and madly packing. I even made plane reservations that would have made it impossible to attend. I was so stressed beforehand that I was practically sick. So when I made those reservations, I waited for the relief of a decision well made.
It didn’t come. Somehow the body knew that what was logical, mature and responsible was also the wrong decision.
Still struggling with my pent up lack of relief, I had a conversation with my friend Chloe, who is entirely to blame for all of this… oh yes, she is! She had the audacity to ask me the following questions: “Are you going to regret not going? Are you just going to spend the next year obsessing over what might have been, or what you missed?”
Sigh. This is why you should never be friends with people who know you well. Seriously, once someone knows you really well, you should ship them off to Iceland with no internet or phone access.
I made one last valiant attempt. I left it up to the universe. I’d like to point out that I do not believe that the universe has a plan for my love life, only a sense of humor bordering on malevolence. We flipped a coin. It did not land on the side of running away. Somehow, even the freakin coin knew. I suggested 2 out of 3, Chloe pointed out that the universe had already answered, and my additional frantic flipping wouldn’t count.
Five minutes later I changed all of my plane reservations. I wrote to my friends again and told them I was coming to the event after all. Then I waited for the panic to settle over me. It didn’t come.
None of my normal reactions kicked in. No frantic shopping sprees followed the decision. No binge dieting for an event that was just a week or so down the line. No emergency plastic surgery, honey blond hair extensions, or teeth whitening.
I was just calm. I knew that even though his name wasn’t on the RSVP list the week of the event, and we hadn’t spoken, that he would be there. I was as calm as I have ever been before getting on a plane – because I knew I would finally get a real chance to say goodbye.
(coming next: the good, the new and the “he said what?”)
Whew! Busy times. So, what do you want to know about? LOL! Yeah, I know. I know. The nail polish. Ok, it is a barely there pink called “Jane”. I rarely go girlie, but it goes with almost everything.
Are those cyber-darts you are lobbing at me like mini-grenades? ;)
Remember this post (http://katedating.blogspot.com/2007_03_01_archive.html) I made months ago? It was a passing thought that for no reason that made sense to me at the time, wouldn’t leave me alone. The “what if” just kept swirling around me—coming over me at the strangest times. It was as though storm clouds were heading my way and the wind was whispering “something wicked this way comes”.
You see even though I didn’t know I’d see him, a part of me did know. In fact, apparently, a part of me knew back in October. My friend B said, in reference to the drama with The Ex: “Well, at least the drama is over—you wont ever see him again”. My response? “It’s not over”.
Sometimes you just know.
We are on opposite sides of the country. We have no mutual friends in each other’s respective states. Most of our mutual friends are already married. And I was certainly not getting an invitation to his nuptials (which are Saturday, for those of you playing along at home).
I just knew.
I can see the Greek Chorus swaying in the background shouting “why didn’t you just run?”
I tried not to go. No really, an actual try. Not a half-hearted, kind of “no, I shouldn’t” while giggling and madly packing. I even made plane reservations that would have made it impossible to attend. I was so stressed beforehand that I was practically sick. So when I made those reservations, I waited for the relief of a decision well made.
It didn’t come. Somehow the body knew that what was logical, mature and responsible was also the wrong decision.
Still struggling with my pent up lack of relief, I had a conversation with my friend Chloe, who is entirely to blame for all of this… oh yes, she is! She had the audacity to ask me the following questions: “Are you going to regret not going? Are you just going to spend the next year obsessing over what might have been, or what you missed?”
Sigh. This is why you should never be friends with people who know you well. Seriously, once someone knows you really well, you should ship them off to Iceland with no internet or phone access.
I made one last valiant attempt. I left it up to the universe. I’d like to point out that I do not believe that the universe has a plan for my love life, only a sense of humor bordering on malevolence. We flipped a coin. It did not land on the side of running away. Somehow, even the freakin coin knew. I suggested 2 out of 3, Chloe pointed out that the universe had already answered, and my additional frantic flipping wouldn’t count.
Five minutes later I changed all of my plane reservations. I wrote to my friends again and told them I was coming to the event after all. Then I waited for the panic to settle over me. It didn’t come.
None of my normal reactions kicked in. No frantic shopping sprees followed the decision. No binge dieting for an event that was just a week or so down the line. No emergency plastic surgery, honey blond hair extensions, or teeth whitening.
I was just calm. I knew that even though his name wasn’t on the RSVP list the week of the event, and we hadn’t spoken, that he would be there. I was as calm as I have ever been before getting on a plane – because I knew I would finally get a real chance to say goodbye.
(coming next: the good, the new and the “he said what?”)
Monday, May 28, 2007
Another Sign
Does anyone else here keep getting “freeze your eggs before it’s too late, which it practically is already, God, you’re old, seriously, time is not only ticking, but you’ve basically expired, your womb is heading toward arid and abandoned, I mean we’re talking about the Sahara down there” brochures in the mail?
Just me?
I swear, I get one of these brochures about once every month, or two, now. It always features an adorable baby and an older woman (which means the model is probably 22) looking happy and playful. You know there is some sort of virile, delighted male presence standing off in the shadows. Not doing any work, of course, but he’s lurking somewhere pretending to be helpful.
Here’s the funny thing—the fine print has an age limit remarkably close to my own age. In fact, I’ve already passed the optimal freezing age. So, this groundbreaking technology is almost as beyond me as the low tech options.
Excellent.
I never really thought about having kids. It was never a generic goal. When I was with The Ex, I thought about us as parents. When that ended, I didn’t think about it anymore.
It’s not upsetting exactly. It’s more like disconcerting. I just assumed that ultimately it would be my choice. Looks like life may end up making that choice for me instead.
The next brochure will probably be specifically for me—as in the type on the front will actually say “Kate, Congratulations on killing your prime reproductive years on Prince Waste-Your-Time and then compounding it by mourning his loss for years and choosing to spend next weekend with him and your mutual friends in the place where you met. For the low, low price of…”
Yeah. Got to love the junk mail that makes you question all of your life’s choices.
Kate
P.S. If you are thinking what I think you are thinking—I know, and it is Chloe’s fault.
Just me?
I swear, I get one of these brochures about once every month, or two, now. It always features an adorable baby and an older woman (which means the model is probably 22) looking happy and playful. You know there is some sort of virile, delighted male presence standing off in the shadows. Not doing any work, of course, but he’s lurking somewhere pretending to be helpful.
Here’s the funny thing—the fine print has an age limit remarkably close to my own age. In fact, I’ve already passed the optimal freezing age. So, this groundbreaking technology is almost as beyond me as the low tech options.
Excellent.
I never really thought about having kids. It was never a generic goal. When I was with The Ex, I thought about us as parents. When that ended, I didn’t think about it anymore.
It’s not upsetting exactly. It’s more like disconcerting. I just assumed that ultimately it would be my choice. Looks like life may end up making that choice for me instead.
The next brochure will probably be specifically for me—as in the type on the front will actually say “Kate, Congratulations on killing your prime reproductive years on Prince Waste-Your-Time and then compounding it by mourning his loss for years and choosing to spend next weekend with him and your mutual friends in the place where you met. For the low, low price of…”
Yeah. Got to love the junk mail that makes you question all of your life’s choices.
Kate
P.S. If you are thinking what I think you are thinking—I know, and it is Chloe’s fault.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Totally Worth It
Now this is a man who cares about his girlfriend’s needs:
http://www.tmz.com/2007/05/24/clooney-turns-tricks-in-cannes/
$350,000 for a kiss from George Clooney (oh, and a lovely vacation, I’m sure) … hmmm sounds perfectly reasonable, actually. I’m just a little short of that. I’m sure if I cut out life’s little luxuries like food and shelter, in a few years I could get maybe a touch on the arm.
Maybe we should have some sort of charitable fundraiser. I’m actually starting the foundation paperwork right now. I’m torn on the name of the foundation, though. Should it be called “Give Money to Kate for George Clooney Kisses Foundation”, or “$350,000 is a small price to pay for true love… or something a little to the left of love Foundation”, or “Yes, Kate Really Is that Desperate Foundation”? OR maybe it should be something more generic so that when we invariably raise far more than $350,000 for such a worthy cause, other deserving women can receive financial assistance. For instance, I am perfectly willing, after winning the fair George, of course, to assist my friend Chloe in her quest for Paul Walker. He might be even a little less expensive than George—we might be able to get Paul Walker kisses for closer to $200,000.
No, I don’t see the similarities between this and prostitution. Why? This is charity. And as I’ve noted many times, I’m all about the giving.
Kate, looking for loose change so she can start the bidding
http://www.tmz.com/2007/05/24/clooney-turns-tricks-in-cannes/
$350,000 for a kiss from George Clooney (oh, and a lovely vacation, I’m sure) … hmmm sounds perfectly reasonable, actually. I’m just a little short of that. I’m sure if I cut out life’s little luxuries like food and shelter, in a few years I could get maybe a touch on the arm.
Maybe we should have some sort of charitable fundraiser. I’m actually starting the foundation paperwork right now. I’m torn on the name of the foundation, though. Should it be called “Give Money to Kate for George Clooney Kisses Foundation”, or “$350,000 is a small price to pay for true love… or something a little to the left of love Foundation”, or “Yes, Kate Really Is that Desperate Foundation”? OR maybe it should be something more generic so that when we invariably raise far more than $350,000 for such a worthy cause, other deserving women can receive financial assistance. For instance, I am perfectly willing, after winning the fair George, of course, to assist my friend Chloe in her quest for Paul Walker. He might be even a little less expensive than George—we might be able to get Paul Walker kisses for closer to $200,000.
No, I don’t see the similarities between this and prostitution. Why? This is charity. And as I’ve noted many times, I’m all about the giving.
Kate, looking for loose change so she can start the bidding
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Just a Bit of Fun
I was reading my horoscope yesterday, and it explicitly said that “today was my day for major flirting”. Well, far be it for me to argue with the sage wisdom of the heavens. If flirting had to be done, I was ready to do it.
Only one problem—there was no one already in my apartment to enjoy my efforts. I’ve been dieting, so I’ve been neglecting the pizza guy. I think he’s feeling hurt, so now it’s just awkward to call. He probably thinks I’m cheating with Pizza Hut (Where is the trust?). Also, ever since webvan went out of business, Brad, the delightful delivery boy hasn’t visited. He doesn’t write… or call…
I thought about trying my neighbors down by the pool, but let’s face it, flirting with neighbors could have unintended consequences. For instance, they know where you live. Flirting seems like an invitation. I flirt, and they might think they are welcome to stop by for a visit. I like to discourage everyone from stopping by. No, seriously, everyone—even people I actually like. So, you can see why flirting in my own apartment building could be very dangerous.
So, I took my show on the road. I headed toward Malibu. Malibu—the shining beacon of light and beach fantasy living. In reality, Malibu is really just a beach town. A beach town with some amazing real estate, sure, but the attitude is pure beach town. A beach town full of lovely sight seeing opportunities. And by sight seeing—you know I don’t mean museums.
Luck was with me. My horoscope was absolutely accurate. It said I would flirt, and I did. Twice. The object of my affections? Two lovely members of the Malibu Fire Department. Hmmmmm Firemen. These men were quite literally standing by the side of the road waiting for me. Of course, they were also looking for charitable donations, and I was inspired to great charity—once going up to the beach, and once coming back. I tossed my hair, and smiled, which then turned into something just slightly grotesque as my hair got sort of caught in my lipgloss and teeth. But I think men find spitting hair out of your mouth sexy, right?
I’m actually surprised they didn’t think I was stalking them because the up and back happened in fairly quick succession. The fog hadn’t burned off up there, so I basically drove up, stayed for a half an hour and drove back. But still, I considered the trip a success. After all, the view was spectacular. ;)
Let’s hope my next horoscope is as much fun!
Kate
Only one problem—there was no one already in my apartment to enjoy my efforts. I’ve been dieting, so I’ve been neglecting the pizza guy. I think he’s feeling hurt, so now it’s just awkward to call. He probably thinks I’m cheating with Pizza Hut (Where is the trust?). Also, ever since webvan went out of business, Brad, the delightful delivery boy hasn’t visited. He doesn’t write… or call…
I thought about trying my neighbors down by the pool, but let’s face it, flirting with neighbors could have unintended consequences. For instance, they know where you live. Flirting seems like an invitation. I flirt, and they might think they are welcome to stop by for a visit. I like to discourage everyone from stopping by. No, seriously, everyone—even people I actually like. So, you can see why flirting in my own apartment building could be very dangerous.
So, I took my show on the road. I headed toward Malibu. Malibu—the shining beacon of light and beach fantasy living. In reality, Malibu is really just a beach town. A beach town with some amazing real estate, sure, but the attitude is pure beach town. A beach town full of lovely sight seeing opportunities. And by sight seeing—you know I don’t mean museums.
Luck was with me. My horoscope was absolutely accurate. It said I would flirt, and I did. Twice. The object of my affections? Two lovely members of the Malibu Fire Department. Hmmmmm Firemen. These men were quite literally standing by the side of the road waiting for me. Of course, they were also looking for charitable donations, and I was inspired to great charity—once going up to the beach, and once coming back. I tossed my hair, and smiled, which then turned into something just slightly grotesque as my hair got sort of caught in my lipgloss and teeth. But I think men find spitting hair out of your mouth sexy, right?
I’m actually surprised they didn’t think I was stalking them because the up and back happened in fairly quick succession. The fog hadn’t burned off up there, so I basically drove up, stayed for a half an hour and drove back. But still, I considered the trip a success. After all, the view was spectacular. ;)
Let’s hope my next horoscope is as much fun!
Kate
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Do You Ever Notice?
Do you ever notice that when you learn a new word, or new concept, it suddenly turns up everywhere? You come across it in every new book you read, or the next tv show/movie you see deals with it. Most of the time, I find this coincidence to be entertaining. Well, it seems to work the same way with things you want to avoid. At the moment, I’m trying to avoid an old concept, and it just seems to be attacking me from all sides.
What concept?
Weddings.
Weddings are everywhere. Most of the season finales on TV right now are featuring weddings. Every magazine has “last minute details for your perfect wedding” taunting me. Most of my friends are getting ready to go to at least one friend’s wedding. I read this raunchy/funny blog written by a friend of mine, and I swear he’s gone to (and written about) a wedding every couple of weeks lately. Hell, even the guy who manages his website just got engaged.
It’s like I’m trapped inside a funhouse where the mirrors are tilting and demented clowns are jumping out at me while laughing hysterically.
Look, I get that it is almost June. I get that it’s the most popular wedding month. I get that I wasn’t going to be completely able to avoid the idea forever despite covering my ears with my hands and yelling “LA LA LA LA LA”.
I even understand that my sensitivity might be related to the fact that The Ex will be getting married in about a month. Maybe. Possibly. But come on!! I was doing well. I didn’t even break down and buy him a wedding present to prove how much I’ve grown. Nor have I spent much time at all dwelling at all on what he’s going to look like standing at the end of that aisle waiting for someone who isn’t me… well, I wasn’t until right now. Now, I might be dwelling just a bit, but it isn’t anything a little rocking back and forth wont take care of.
I’m not asking for a lot. I’m just asking for the universe to back off a tiny bit for just a few hours.
This has been a public service request—because the public will be served by me not having a bigger mental break.
Thank you.
Kate
What concept?
Weddings.
Weddings are everywhere. Most of the season finales on TV right now are featuring weddings. Every magazine has “last minute details for your perfect wedding” taunting me. Most of my friends are getting ready to go to at least one friend’s wedding. I read this raunchy/funny blog written by a friend of mine, and I swear he’s gone to (and written about) a wedding every couple of weeks lately. Hell, even the guy who manages his website just got engaged.
It’s like I’m trapped inside a funhouse where the mirrors are tilting and demented clowns are jumping out at me while laughing hysterically.
Look, I get that it is almost June. I get that it’s the most popular wedding month. I get that I wasn’t going to be completely able to avoid the idea forever despite covering my ears with my hands and yelling “LA LA LA LA LA”.
I even understand that my sensitivity might be related to the fact that The Ex will be getting married in about a month. Maybe. Possibly. But come on!! I was doing well. I didn’t even break down and buy him a wedding present to prove how much I’ve grown. Nor have I spent much time at all dwelling at all on what he’s going to look like standing at the end of that aisle waiting for someone who isn’t me… well, I wasn’t until right now. Now, I might be dwelling just a bit, but it isn’t anything a little rocking back and forth wont take care of.
I’m not asking for a lot. I’m just asking for the universe to back off a tiny bit for just a few hours.
This has been a public service request—because the public will be served by me not having a bigger mental break.
Thank you.
Kate
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Possibilities are just… um…
Since romanticized belief in “the one” got me pretty much nowhere, I’ve decided to take a practical approach. I’m making a list—I’m very big on “to do” lists, so I’m comfortable with this concept (nothing I like better than being able to check something off!). What is this particular list of? Professions that would yield a suitable mate.
It’s not as crazy as it sounds. I have a very specific life right now. I’m up by 5am at the latest during the week. It’s incredibly hard for me to sleep beyond 7am even on the weekends. Many people make the mistake of suggesting that this makes me a morning person. Um… no. It’s a very good thing that I don’t have to have pleasant interaction with people at those hours. I tend to be very internal on my most social day, and 5am is not a social hour for me.
When I was living with my ex, he had a very different schedule, which ultimately didn’t work for us as a couple. For instance, he liked to eat dinner later than 4:30. Whatever. He’d want to stay up late on weekends and sleep-in to like… oh… 10:00am on weekends. Nuts! Clearly, he had narcoleptic tendencies. And apparently, he wanted a woman who might be awake past 9pm. He was so unreasonable.
My schedule is actual crazier now than it was when I was with him (although significantly less time is spent commuting), but it is a real issue. If someone wanted to meet me for a date at 7pm, I’d probably have a panic attack. Ok, I would definitely have a panic attack because I’d be going on a date. But beside that, I’d have a panic attack because the last thing I want to do at the end of a long day is have to be up and bubbly—actually, just up really is too much for me.
I realize this makes me sound like a 90 year old, but this is my reality. Sure, if there is something really special going on, I’ll concede to later hours, but that’s not a lifestyle option for me. I’d never make it through work.
So, I’m working on a list. What kind of career would mould a man who would understand and even appreciate my lifestyle?
1. Morning news anchor. They get up earlier than I do. I’m not picky—local LA news, CNN, MSNBC, whatever. Plus, I love current events and politics.
2. Morning radio DJ. They also tend to get up earlier than I do. I’m constantly listening to music, but I’m not really into the music scene, so I might not know what they are talking about. Still, a real possibility, I think.
3. Milkman. Do they have milkmen still?
4. Paperboy. Could be potentially tricky to meet a 40 year old paperboy, but it could happen.
5. Senior Center Assistant. He’d be good with people, and he’d understand the whole eating at 4pm thing.
6. um…yeah, I’m out.
Look, if this is the current love of my life we’re talking about, I’d be willing to make concessions periodically. But starting a new relationship with someone who thinks I’m going to change, the work is going to change, or someone I have to pretend with, is not good idea.
So, options? Let me hear them!
Kate, already in her jammies at 6:30, in LA.
It’s not as crazy as it sounds. I have a very specific life right now. I’m up by 5am at the latest during the week. It’s incredibly hard for me to sleep beyond 7am even on the weekends. Many people make the mistake of suggesting that this makes me a morning person. Um… no. It’s a very good thing that I don’t have to have pleasant interaction with people at those hours. I tend to be very internal on my most social day, and 5am is not a social hour for me.
When I was living with my ex, he had a very different schedule, which ultimately didn’t work for us as a couple. For instance, he liked to eat dinner later than 4:30. Whatever. He’d want to stay up late on weekends and sleep-in to like… oh… 10:00am on weekends. Nuts! Clearly, he had narcoleptic tendencies. And apparently, he wanted a woman who might be awake past 9pm. He was so unreasonable.
My schedule is actual crazier now than it was when I was with him (although significantly less time is spent commuting), but it is a real issue. If someone wanted to meet me for a date at 7pm, I’d probably have a panic attack. Ok, I would definitely have a panic attack because I’d be going on a date. But beside that, I’d have a panic attack because the last thing I want to do at the end of a long day is have to be up and bubbly—actually, just up really is too much for me.
I realize this makes me sound like a 90 year old, but this is my reality. Sure, if there is something really special going on, I’ll concede to later hours, but that’s not a lifestyle option for me. I’d never make it through work.
So, I’m working on a list. What kind of career would mould a man who would understand and even appreciate my lifestyle?
1. Morning news anchor. They get up earlier than I do. I’m not picky—local LA news, CNN, MSNBC, whatever. Plus, I love current events and politics.
2. Morning radio DJ. They also tend to get up earlier than I do. I’m constantly listening to music, but I’m not really into the music scene, so I might not know what they are talking about. Still, a real possibility, I think.
3. Milkman. Do they have milkmen still?
4. Paperboy. Could be potentially tricky to meet a 40 year old paperboy, but it could happen.
5. Senior Center Assistant. He’d be good with people, and he’d understand the whole eating at 4pm thing.
6. um…yeah, I’m out.
Look, if this is the current love of my life we’re talking about, I’d be willing to make concessions periodically. But starting a new relationship with someone who thinks I’m going to change, the work is going to change, or someone I have to pretend with, is not good idea.
So, options? Let me hear them!
Kate, already in her jammies at 6:30, in LA.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Shrek is Killing My Love Life
It’s not like I’m not trying at least a teensy bit to date. I am. For instance, periodically, I leave my apartment. And when I do so, at least 35% of the time, I have combed my hair. So, you can see that I’m really putting some effort into this whole “finding another love of a lifetime” thing.
But I’m not getting anywhere. And now not only am I am being thwarted by age, cellulite and antisocial tendencies, but now I am being thwarted by an animated green ogre.
Shrek is killing my love life.
Really, who hasn’t said that sentence before? I’m sure most people have, but this is a first for me. How is the green monster (for once, I’m not talking about envy) trashing my prospects?
I’ve been trying to put together this screening/party thing. I’ve mostly squashed my antisocial outlook, and I’ve tried to embrace this as an opportunity. So, I went out on a limb, and I issued a special invitation to a young gentleman caller (or emailer, really) with whom I’ve chatted on a number of occasions. This constitutes a bold move for me. Bold, people. Very, very bold. Sigh.
Well, the screening date and party plans that we put together have been killed by Shrek. Shrek is booked in for early screenings, so when our original date got pushed, we couldn’t go to the backup date. As of right now, we have no screening date. Which means have no party date. Which means I have no date.
Freakin’ Shrek.
Kate, who shouldn’t be planning parties to begin with, in LA
But I’m not getting anywhere. And now not only am I am being thwarted by age, cellulite and antisocial tendencies, but now I am being thwarted by an animated green ogre.
Shrek is killing my love life.
Really, who hasn’t said that sentence before? I’m sure most people have, but this is a first for me. How is the green monster (for once, I’m not talking about envy) trashing my prospects?
I’ve been trying to put together this screening/party thing. I’ve mostly squashed my antisocial outlook, and I’ve tried to embrace this as an opportunity. So, I went out on a limb, and I issued a special invitation to a young gentleman caller (or emailer, really) with whom I’ve chatted on a number of occasions. This constitutes a bold move for me. Bold, people. Very, very bold. Sigh.
Well, the screening date and party plans that we put together have been killed by Shrek. Shrek is booked in for early screenings, so when our original date got pushed, we couldn’t go to the backup date. As of right now, we have no screening date. Which means have no party date. Which means I have no date.
Freakin’ Shrek.
Kate, who shouldn’t be planning parties to begin with, in LA
Monday, April 30, 2007
Party Planning
I’ve been asked to help schedule and plan a party.
Let’s just let that sink in for a moment.
I have been asked to plan a party. Yeah, because when you think to yourself—gosh, you know who loves going to and throwing parties? Kate. Totally. She loves people. She can’t get enough of people. Social. Social. Social. She’s never home. Life is just one big party for Kate. You certainly don’t find her hiding in a corner behind a plant.
You know what aspect she loves the most—Food. Lord only knows how much she loves dining out, particularly at night. Foodie and Kate are practically synonymous. Foodie, party planning and Kate. She’s really the best person for the job.
I mean… have these people met me? Have the words “I want to throw a party” ever left my mouth? Not to my knowledge. In fact, I’m not sure the words “I want to go to a party” have often left my mouth (alright, there was that one time that involved a guy, a frat party and a toga, but that was years ago, and all the witnesses have been disappeared).
On what planet does someone expect me to have any clue how much food feeds 150 people, or how much that would reasonably cost? I go to the grocery store once a month tops. And if it is food that can’t be eaten while standing over the sink in my kitchen, it’s going to stay in my freezer a very long time.
I’ve known these people for years, but either they aren’t remotely aware of who they are dealing with, or they just don’t have time to do it themselves.
So, dear friends, expect a call. One, or more of you, will be coming very, very soon to a restaurant near you (well, near me). And you will sit down and play taste tester.
Now, any volunteers to help me test out the alcohol? Since I rarely drink, I’m going to need help on that one, too.
Dang… phone is already ringing, and I haven’t even posted this yet.
Lushes. ;)
Please pray for me. Or rather, pray for the guests. They’ve worked hard. They deserve a good time.
Kate
(Ok, go ahead and pray doubly hard for me. I may need to hibernate soon just to recover).
Let’s just let that sink in for a moment.
I have been asked to plan a party. Yeah, because when you think to yourself—gosh, you know who loves going to and throwing parties? Kate. Totally. She loves people. She can’t get enough of people. Social. Social. Social. She’s never home. Life is just one big party for Kate. You certainly don’t find her hiding in a corner behind a plant.
You know what aspect she loves the most—Food. Lord only knows how much she loves dining out, particularly at night. Foodie and Kate are practically synonymous. Foodie, party planning and Kate. She’s really the best person for the job.
I mean… have these people met me? Have the words “I want to throw a party” ever left my mouth? Not to my knowledge. In fact, I’m not sure the words “I want to go to a party” have often left my mouth (alright, there was that one time that involved a guy, a frat party and a toga, but that was years ago, and all the witnesses have been disappeared).
On what planet does someone expect me to have any clue how much food feeds 150 people, or how much that would reasonably cost? I go to the grocery store once a month tops. And if it is food that can’t be eaten while standing over the sink in my kitchen, it’s going to stay in my freezer a very long time.
I’ve known these people for years, but either they aren’t remotely aware of who they are dealing with, or they just don’t have time to do it themselves.
So, dear friends, expect a call. One, or more of you, will be coming very, very soon to a restaurant near you (well, near me). And you will sit down and play taste tester.
Now, any volunteers to help me test out the alcohol? Since I rarely drink, I’m going to need help on that one, too.
Dang… phone is already ringing, and I haven’t even posted this yet.
Lushes. ;)
Please pray for me. Or rather, pray for the guests. They’ve worked hard. They deserve a good time.
Kate
(Ok, go ahead and pray doubly hard for me. I may need to hibernate soon just to recover).
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