A True Story

Earlier today a friend said, “Oh dating guru, Kate, could you please pass on a tiny nugget of your relationship wisdom?” Or, you know, something really close to that. Because I’m a benevolent soul with vast (read: singular) experience in the matters of the heart, I will now give you one of my top ten pieces of dating advice. Ready?

Do not let a man see your vagina before he has seen your face.

I mean this literally.

I’m not putting a lot of restrictions on you. It’s not like I’m asking you to wait until he can tell you what color your eyes are. That’s impossible. Guys don’t know because they’ve been either looking down your shirt, or mentally calculating how long they have to pretend to listen to you until they can get you naked (and it only looked like they were staring deeply into your eyes). I get that. It would be unreasonable.

But ladies, you are killing me. How desperate are you that you are sending photos of your ruthlessly waxed and eroded southern selves to a man before your first date—or even your first phone call? Do you charge by the hour? Are you working on the “time is money” theory? Are you a porn star? Because if you are, this totally makes sense—he’s already seen it all. If neither is true, put the DAMN CELLPHONE CAMERA DOWN.

I know what you are thinking, “But Kate, I’m straightforward with my wants and needs. If I want a man, I’m going to tell him exactly what is on my mind.” Newsflash—it’s not your mind he’s thinking of and there are ways of doing this without showing him where the ingrown hairs were. Oh, he may still have sex with you (so mission accomplished), but he has no respect or regard for you at all (we won't get into my consternation over why anyone would have sex with someone they don't respect).

Out of curiosity, if you are someone who starts with VajCam, where the hell do you hope to go from there? Do you just keep a spare snatch snap and send it out to the AT&T phone directory in hopes of finding a way to kill 20 minutes every evening? Is this a reverse type move where you start with porn and then hope to move to deep conversation? I have bad news for you—if you think all you have to offer is a body part, it’s going to be tough for anyone else to see beyond that. I just don’t see him saying, “there’s a fine labia, I wonder what her thoughts are on deficit reduction?”

You’ve exchanged one email with the gadabout through a dating site. Try coffee first. Sure, it could be a waste of time, but think of the penicillin you’ll save.

Oh You Kidder

I've always told my friends that the one thing I'd most want to do with David Duchovny is discuss Russian literature (and no, I don't mean that euphemistically). I understand that this makes me socially freakish, but a good conversation is far more intriguing to me than nearly anything (save winning the lottery, which I would quite like to do as well). So, naturally, this film rumor made me smile and then shake my head (plus, Helen Hunt and Larry Moss? dies):

Relative Insanity

Yep-- the rumor is that he's doing a modern adaptation of Chekhov's The Seagull. I very much hope this is true.

So close, universe. So close. Keep trying.

Also, David: try Gogol next.

Something You Don't Know

Something you don't know about me and would never guess...

When I was in first grade, I got an S on my report card (S=Satisfactory). I missed out on the S+. Why? The teacher said that while I was bright, I had a tendency to socialize too much with my neighbors in class.

Apparently, I've spent the rest of my life making up for it.

Outside Myself

(now with 100% more pictures)

Seeing your life through someone else’s eyes can be illuminating or depressing. When I look at the changes in my life over the last several years critically (because when aren’t I critical), I see someone who went from employed, living in a 3-bedroom house with the husband presumptive to unemployed, flying solo in a small 1-bedroom apartment. It doesn’t feel like a momentous transition into a delightful new world. It might seem like spectacular failure.

Enter my mother.

She came to visit. She loved it here. She marveled at everything and thinks my life is exciting and full of possibility. And the one thing she said over and over again (other than “it’s so clean here”) was “there is so much to do here all the time.”

She might not be wrong. OK, not about my life (I’m allergic to exciting); however, Los Angeles can be a fascinating place if you let it be. So this past weekend, I decided to let Los Angeles dazzle me—and it had nothing to do with celebrities.

Stop #1: The Annenberg Space for Photography: Beauty Culture Exhibit

I had stopped at Annenberg with friends last week, but I missed the beginning of the Beauty Culture exhibit companion film by Lauren Greenfield. I was intrigued enough to go back. It’s a very frank film about the beauty mega-industry and how that has impacted us all. Now I’m inspired to work on my own “beauty” project. If you live in Los Angeles and know me in real life, you should just assume I will beg you to be part of it. I can be relentless. Give in now.

Total cost to attend exhibit and film: $0
Parking: free elsewhere, but they also have validation for site parking

Stop #2: The Getty: Saturdays Off the 405

The Getty modern is a place I’m growing to love more every time I visit. When I went with my mom, we did the gardens tour: beautiful views, interesting information on how it was designed and entirely free—what could be better? Saturdays Off the 405 is a concert series that allows attendees to groove to tunes and take in the breathtaking sunset at the same time. On Saturday evening, I cruised up to the Getty to hear Charles Bradley & the Menahan Street Band (if you are into R&B/Soul head to iTunes).

While the band was a great new find for me, what I marveled at was the cross-section of Los Angeles that turned out for the concert. From the heavily pierced to the conservative Beverly Hills types, everyone was there—all colors, ages, shapes and sizes. Some were right up by the band (and wine/beer) in the museum courtyard, while others lounged by fountains or the lawns. I felt like I had discovered a new world. At last I know where Los Angeles goes on Saturday nights. Forget the clubs—the Getty Museum is the place to be!

Total cost to attend the concert: $0
Parking: Free at the Getty after 5:00pm


Stop #3: LACMA: Sundays Live (sundayslive.org)

“Sundays Live” is a weekly classical chamber music concert at the Bing Theater of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (it’s broadcast and you can pick it up on podcast). The program is “the longest-running live music broadcast in Los Angeles,” according to their website. It started in 1948. Despite that, and all the years I’ve lived here, Sunday night was my very first visit. I blame Breaking Bad for my normal reluctance to leave on a Sunday evening. That and the dread of going to a job the next day for many years pretty much shut my exploratory ways down on any given Sunday. And… sometimes football.

Anyway.

This concert featured Daniel Rothmuller (cello) and Bernadene Blaha (piano) performing Chopin: Sonata, Opus 65 and Brahms: Sonata in E minor, Opus 38. The music was sublime, as you would expect it to be as part of a long-running, well-regarded program. I listened to the first half within the theater and the second outside in the courtyard (what can I say, there is something dreamy and romantic about having the music swell around me as the breezes and fountains flow).

Here’s another thing that might surprise you: the event was packed. I now know where the people of Los Angeles go on Sunday nights. I certainly know where I’m going to be.

Total cost to attend the concert: $0
Parking: At the museum it is $10, but street parking is free

People, if you live in Los Angeles, don’t wait to see it until you play tour guide (or prepare to leave). It’s an amazing place and often the fabulousness can be had for free.

Gift Ideas

As we get closer to major gift giving holidays like Labor Day and Columbus Day, you may be stumped as to what to get me as a gift. Allow me to point you in the right direction:




http://shop.ebay.com/ibg_inc/m.html

My Love Life in Brief

Kate: You never know-- my Prince Charming could be at the concert tomorrow at the Getty.

Pen: Yeah, but you won't talk to him.

Kate: I can't argue with that.



fade to black.

Now What?

And I’m back. Since we last chatted, I volunteered at an event and played tourist with my mother—both good things.

But now, here I sit. Mom has gone home. The next volunteer task is well in hand. My laundry is done. My dishes are clean.

Now what?

This is the first time since I quit 4 (?!) months ago that I haven’t had something all-consuming looming. I could do anything (finances being somewhat of an issue, of course). I should be writing. I should be pitching. I should be trying to get an agent or take meetings. Instead I am living proof of the idea that if you can make every choice in the world, you make no choice at all.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I chose to come to this restaurant for lunch with the intent of writing, but find myself trying not to check out the male television star seated across from me. I suppose that is progress—at least I’ve stopped obsessively watching The Weather Channel.

When I quit in April, I’m not sure I planned for this phase of inactivity and lack of direction. I always thought of myself as being driven, as a workaholic. Yet what I have discovered so far is that I could do absolutely nothing for the next eight months and not care—heck, I’m not sure the passage of time itself would really register.

There is a reality star sitting to the right of me. I have no idea what her name is, but I am vaguely annoyed that I recognize her at all. I could hope I recognize her because she’s accomplished something. I have a sinking feeling it’s from a headline involving a sex tape or scandal-ridden divorce. Still she seems motivated and goal-oriented. She will not be dodging the gaggle of paps stationed in the parking lot.

The people behind me either know Kathie Lee or spend a lot of time concerned with what she thinks. But they are driven, planners of morning television, and they have real purpose. Though, I’m not sure I would have observed them at all had it not been for the one woman who sounds exactly like a lawyer at my old firm (it’s a voice I still hear in my nightmares).

I keep seeing people approach the TV star. They know him vaguely. They want to know him better. The current visitor has a project—and he has made his move. I think it’s going to happen for him. He’s dropping the right names, saying the right things.

I marvel at him. I could have a screenplay dubbed “the next Oscar sure thing,” and I would never make that move. I shudder at the idea of it. I don’t want to be rude. I don’t want to seem aggressive. Actually pursuing something for me is rarely conceivable—and frankly, every time I’ve even tried, I’ve been slapped by fate for it.

Visitor has left now. They have a meeting set. Mission, at least partially, accomplished by the assertive guy in khaki shorts. Well done, sir.

The TV star just yelled out jokingly, “give me a good story—we need good stories.”

Naturally, I continue to sit here quietly hoping someone will notice me.

Shockingly, they never do.

Ruffles Across the Butt

I know. It's crazy, but I DO want my ass entirely covered.

You know what I don't want? Ruffles. When did ruffles across the butt on a bathing suit become normal for any female over three? I get the draping. I get more coverage. But ruffles? What exactly do you think the ruffle is hiding? Also, when there is decoration, people tend to look at it more. My butt does not need additional attention. If I could paint my body the color of the sand and match the suit, I would. My goal is to pretend it is not there. Frankly, it's the goal of anyone who sees me in a bathing suit, too. No one needs a ruffle acting as a neon arrow to no man's land.

I understand bathing suit designers are under a lot of pressure. They constantly get harangued by women who have honed their enormous number of body issues into award-winning angst (for instance, medical science cannot explain my thighs… seriously, the finest minds have failed). But must we make it more challenging?

I know you guys are bored, but having a ladder of fabric up the back, while looking interesting, means the tan lines are going to be murder. Do you want the people wearing your bathing suits to look like they were whipped by Dom 47? No? Because they will if they burn in that thing.

Also, who decided that adding metal is a good idea? Metal fasteners in the front, big shiny metal things on the hips, or the big "nautical" looking chain design might be eye catching, but the sun is actually hot. I know. I know. No one ever tells you these things. It is true. The sun is hot. When left in the sun, metal things get hotter. Why would I want metal burning things anywhere near my breasts? And, God forbid, if you are actually wearing the metal (or faux metal/plastic) into the ocean or swimming pool: Nothing says sexy like corrosion.

And another thing—maximum support should mean straps that hold the top up. What it should not mean is that you've added so much padding to the top that when you get out of the water, you'll be leaking for the rest of the day. I'm not saying you should stop providing padded bra tops. The theory is a good one. But when a girl looks for swim top with support, she tends to be looking for… oh… what's the word… support. The tiny little strings and three tons of sponge work, isn't quite what she has in mind.

If you are designing for 6ft model types with perfectly buoyant bodies, well done. Those poor fools need swimwear, too. Life is hard enough for those folks without making them cover their lights under bushels. But for the rest of us, could you please take a moment to reflect on what it was like in the olden days when breasts were real and a woman might not have the metabolism of a racehorse?

Your kind attention this matter is greatly appreciated.

Kate

In My Mind

In my mind, I am taller.

My mental pictures owe a lot to Photoshop, apparently. I'm svelte, sophisticated and statuesque inside. The fact that no one in the history of time has ever thought the word "statuesque" in relation to someone like me is probably not shocking to those of you on the outside. To me, I'm left with confusion. Whenever I picture myself in hard-nosed negotiations, or accidentally coming upon an ex, I'm also much, much taller. I'm sure this isn't unusual. I probably just associate tall people with authority, and when I want to seem authoritative, I picture myself as taller. I'm just trying to figure out why I'm so surprised to find out that I'm still 5'3". No seriously, at least once a week I have a "that can't be right" moment.

It doesn't stop there. You should see me shop. I shop like a tall person. Imagine my consternation after buying the dress I saw on the six foot model (sporting a size zero no doubt) when my picture and her picture don't vaguely resemble one another. Maybe it's just because she had red hair?

 

In my mirror, I am fatter.

My mirror and I don't understand each other. It's not just that I see every flaw. It's that the flaws seem to come as a shock to me from time to time. For instance, just now I walked past the mirrored hall closet (devilish invention) and exclaimed, "Holy Hell!" Not because I was having a religious vision, but because I just noticed exactly how lumpy I looked and that I had actually gone out wearing these clothes.

 

In my fantasies, I am desired.

I just heard a collective "Duh" from you people. I don't mean those kinds of fantasies. I mean the kind of fantasies that involve people offering me jobs because they happened upon my blog, heard good things about me from someone respected, or just met me but were completely charmed. And… perhaps… in moments of weakness, I might want Clooney to approach me and say something along the lines of, "I've been trying to meet you for years, and speaking to you now has surpassed all of my wildest dreams." But that's really only when I've run out of chocolate. And Tuesdays.

 

In my real life, I have never pulled off jaunty.

As a teenager I envied Laura Holt and her seemingly endless supply of jaunty chapeaux. Naturally, I too wanted to exude the confidence that said, "That's right—my hat is jaunty. Not only that, but I'm rockin' this inimitable style that tells the world I am a force to be reckoned with." Instead, dear friends, I envy you your "hatness" and continue to fall far short of perky.

 

In my delusions, I never have to get a 9 to 5 job again.

We'll see.

 

When Dating Becomes a Business Transaction

I'll admit that I'm oddly fascinated with the concept of this website: http://www.whatsyourprice.com/

I'd like to say that I have my finger on the pulse of the dating scene, but my dating scene is more corpse-like than vivacious and thriving. Luckily, I have friends like Pen to introduce me to the newly terrifying ways of meeting someone else who will waste my time (and apparently cost me money).

I can't decide how I feel about the option of bidding on someone's time. I don't kid myself; I'd have to fall into the "generous" category, not the "For the Attractive" category. On the one hand, I suppose it is practical: someone wants an attractive date and here they can buy someone (or at least rent them). I'm a little fuzzy on how this system guards against being prostitution—I mean if a guy pays $500 for an evening with you, you can't convince me that he wouldn't expect something other than your dynamic personality. But let's go along with the supposition that everyone on this site would be playing by the stated rules. I could finally get a date! I have a little savings for "entertainment" during this year of adventure, so it's within the realm of possibility. And yet…there's something that feels vaguely sad about me buying a date (sorry, bidding for a date that I might lose because my enterprising, would-be partner might be looking for someone with a bit more cash and a lot less ass).

And then there is the other part of my reaction to this: at last a chance for successful men to finally date the gold-digging prom queen who normally wouldn't give them the time of day. Contrary to the press around the launch of the site—this isn't like a fun-filled bachelor charity auction. You are for rent. Now if you are broke and pretty, you might be entirely fine with guys paying you for your time (you get dinner and a little spending money). But how does this inspire relationships (as seems to be the stated intention on the site)? What is to keep you from going out on a lot of first dates through the site? You might have no intention of getting involved, but need some quick cash.

I suppose that takes us back to the practical—you are going to date a lot of people while looking for Mr. First Marriage, why shouldn't you get paid for your time?

The theme that is repeated over and over again on the site is that everyone has a price. I'm not so certain that is true. Did Mother Theresa have a price? I'm not saying that there aren't some tempting offers: $1 million would certainly get my attention. But I'm not sure I could get away from the idea that I'm letting someone buy me, and I don't feel like I'm for purchase. And if I could get past the fact that bidding process, do I really want a relationship with someone who buys women? My relationships have been a lot of things (some good, some bad, some "what the hell?"), but I've never treated anyone or been treated like a commodity. Is this really the way of the future?

It just seems like we're getting further and further away from engraved calling cards, heated glances across a crowded room and arousing debate. And I'm hesitant to call that progress.

Sigh.

 

Magical Mystery Tour

My magical mystery tour of Los Angeles has continued. Today's tour stop: Compartes Chocolatier in Brentwood. If you are a chocolate fan, this place is your nirvana. Not only is the chocolate amazing, but you can actually watch it being made right there at the facility. Also, an incredibly nice man brought me chocolate to sample. I'm not sure it gets better than that. In fact, I'm positive it doesn't. Now I'm not saying that Gene Wilder comes out singing about "pure imagination," but it does feel inspiring (and the dark chocolate truffles could inspire many a fantasy, I'm sure).

You'll be incredibly impressed: I limited myself to the five sample box. This was not easy. My one true love is chocolate, and I almost asked about submitting an application now that I'm looking for a new career of adventure and intrigue. Then I got the image of myself being arrested after I ate through the shop's inventory, and I realized that it might not be the best possible plan. I will content myself with the knowledge that I can visit whenever the mood strikes me. And no, my looking for an apartment in the area is not related at all. Why do you ask (she says, wiping chocolate from her face)?

The other reason you should check this place out is they have a really interesting charitable giving program going. Essentially, the proceeds from the handmade beaded bracelet and percentage of the proceeds from the chocolate go to support malnourished children and the only women's center in Darfur through Relief International. Normally, I have to work hard to find outrageous justifications for my chocoholic tendencies. Not so here: a little bit of chocolate goodness can actually do some good elsewhere.

Stay tuned for the next stop on the "how have I lived here so many years and not known this existed before" tour.

 

 

 

 

 

Body Blow

I innocently wandered into a store today and admired a pair of jean shorts. They were longer than the typical shorts, which I can appreciate since I've never had the assets of a Blake Lively or Cameron Diaz. I justified the purchase with the fact that they were on massive sale. I grabbed a couple of sizes and hit the dressing room.

Alright, the first pair didn't fit—could barely squeeze them over my knees. Ok. I shook it off. Things happen. Bodies morph. It might just be time to actually work out rather than thinking about it.

The second, larger pair also didn't fit. And it's not just that they didn't fit, it was as though they were spanx meant for outside wear. My legs looked like sausage cases and the jean shorts were losing the battle to contain me. Is it possible to have fat knees? Because I swear to you, it looked like the muffin top and also become mini muffins on the bottom.

In despair, I peeled them back off, sat on the bench and entertained some suicidal thoughts (along with some inappropriate thoughts involving chips and cheese dip). I checked the label just to be certain I hadn't accidentally wandered into the children's section. Nope. They were made for adults—adults who hate themselves.

There on the label explained at least part of my distress: jean leggings.

That's right ladies (and the occasional gentleman who wanders onto this blog in error) I mistakenly tried on CUT OFF JEGGINGS. I didn't even know these existed—and not just because I don't know anything about fashion, but because their existence is just wrong. How do you sit down in these things? Are you just supposed to pose standing in them while holding your breath (provided you get greased up enough to get them on)? Are they actually supposed to act as a new form of birth control? Because no one is getting anything on, off or over in these things.

I'm going to go call my therapist now. It could take years to erase the memory of me trying to stuff my bits and pieces into the jean equivalent of saran wrap. YEARS, people. YEARS.

If I can save one person from this fate, my life will be a success (ok, not really, but you'll still thank me).

 

An Afternoon with David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson

I'm going to be spending the afternoon (and early evening) with David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson (and special guest Chris Carter). And no, smart-asses, it's not because I'll be spending another Saturday night fervently clutching my DVD player remote (though, I love doing that and will do that again). Nope, this is one of those in-person, not in a massive convention hall, charity events that sounds like fun. You should be there, too!

Details:

http://www.prnewschannel.com/2011/06/28/david-duchovny-and-gillian-anderson-welcome-special-guest-chris-carter-as-they-sa-yes-for-charity/

Actors David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson are reuniting for IBG's summer charity event on July 30 in Los Angeles to benefit SA-YES, a South African charity focusing on the empowerment of marginalized youth in the country.

Foregoing an outside moderator, fans will be treated to the actors taking turns as they pose questions to one another about their entire careers, process and future plans. Have any burning questions for the actors? Ask them! Audience members will be allowed to pose work-related questions to Duchovny and Anderson as part of the event. Dying to know what is in store for Hank Moody in the fifth season of Californication, or about Duchovny's role in Goats? Want to know more about Anderson's work in the upcoming Moby Dick or Johnny English Reborn? The opportunity is here! And, of course, the truth is still out there about the possibilities of a third X-Files film.

As a special treat, the man who created the two characters that Entertainment Weekly named among the 100 greatest characters in pop culture, will be joining in the fun.  Chris Carter will take the stage with Duchovny and Anderson during the latter portion of the audience Q&A to field questions from fans and, perhaps, pose a couple of his own to the duo.  In addition, Carter will be joining Anderson for the photo/autograph signing following the Q&A.

VIP tickets are available through the IBG website: http://www.ibginc.org/specialseries 

Act fast! General seating tickets for the event have already sold out. Fans do not want to miss this truly unique, live event.

 

Euphemisms on a Tuesday

Many of these euphemisms made me laugh, and I figured some of you needed the laugh today, too. Returning to work after long weekends can be hard. I am here to help.

Also, I had no idea #5 was from Othello. I’m not sure it’s going to make me cringe less if I hear it suggested to me, but I do feel more informed now.

Enjoy!

http://www.topdatingsites.com/blog/2011/10-slang-terms-for-hooking-up-and-their-origins/

After Two Months

 

Wishful Thinking: An hour after I quit my job, my future path will be clear.

Reality: Oh, it's clear alright. It's clear I have no idea what I am doing.

 

Wishful Thinking: When I quit my job my apartment will be immaculate.

Reality: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. Seriously, I keep losing stuff. The Apartment is not that big. I spent 10 minutes searching for free weights this morning. How do you lose free weights in a one bedroom apartment? It might have something to do with the fact that I keep moving the furniture around every 2-3 weeks.

 

Wishful Thinking: Once I leave this all-consuming job, I will write every day.

Reality: To be fair, I do use a pen every day. So, that probably counts. I should have been more specific.

 

Wishful Thinking: Once I leave this all-consuming job, my laundry will never pile up.

Reality: Hello, laundry, I promise to turn to you again at some point.

 

Wishful Thinking: Once I leave this crazy "all time zones" job, I'll be able to sleep in every day (until I start work again).

Reality: Well, I don't get up at 4:30 5 days a week anymore—4:45am is really so much more respectable. Go me.

 

Wishful Thinking: Because I wasn't open to the other opportunities in the universe while I was working, those opportunities didn't come to me. This will all change.

Reality: Perhaps the opportunities got lost, only had my work address and are even now trying to track me down?

 

Wishful Thinking: I will have time to read.

Reality: I've definitely started a book since I quit. I have every intention of finishing it someday.

 

Wishful Thinking: I will travel constantly.

Reality: I constantly watch shows about other people traveling. I'm currently pretending that I'm doing my due diligence just in case I ever need a home in Argentina. You never know.

 

Wishful Thinking: Every day I will wake up and choose another exciting thing to do.

Reality: Every day, I wake up. So far. Knock on wood.

 

 

This transition into my new and exciting life has not exactly gone to the wishful thinking plan I had. It's not that I thought it would be easy—nothing ever is for me—but I did think I would be more focused in one particular direction. I thought at least one pursuit would jump out and scream "give this a shot." Instead, I'm going to have to start clubbing opportunities over the head and dragging them back to the apartment. If only I knew where to find them—though I suppose it would take an act of God for me to approach them once identified anyway.

Hmmm.

 

 

Alone in a Crowded Room

Anyone else would have embraced the opportunity presented: a room full of industry people actively hoping to form a network of writers, directors, producers, actors and more. Lovely setting. Early enough to not be confused with clubbing.

Anyone would have taken the opportunity to put out a hand and make some introductions. Anyone except me. Instead I stood in that crowded room full of well-meaning, connected people and fought back tears of frustration.

I simply lack the capacity to approach someone and make small talk. I lack the imagination (which bodes poorly for a writing career) to make my answer to, "What are you doing now?" sound interesting.

"I want to…"

"I'm hoping to…"

"I'm thinking about…"

All of these seemed to be conversation killers the few times I actually engaged.

I knew about this event when I quit my job in April. Not so secretly, I thought networking might finally be possible for me—out of necessity, if nothing else. I allowed myself to hope that the leap I took was a leap into this pond – that I'd feel less like a total outsider. This event would prove that the chance I took was based on the belief that real opportunity was right around the corner. Foolish.

Instead, that panicked, "Oh God, what am I doing here?" feeling was followed immediately by its twin sisters: "You are never going to make it in this industry if you can't talk to decision-makers" and "these people want to be interested in you, and you can't make it happen—good luck getting the people who don't care to listen."

I walked in telling myself to be confident and bold. I internally nattered to myself that smiling would invite people into my orbit. Last time I read a freakin' self-help guide.

Apparently the "F**k you" on my forehead is not limited to single, dateable men. It extends to all people because no amount of joker-like smiling was going to tempt someone into anything even vaguely resembling my orbit. In fact, I'm fairly certain I actually repelled people.

I tried the Bridget Jones approach, though stopped short of actually bringing up Chechnya. I suppose on the mortification scale I did rather better than Bridget as I did not make an embarrassingly bad speech, nor did I go home with a womanizing man named Daniel. Also, I did avoid asking any important writer types for the loo by standing in the corner hiding behind my smartphone. God bless Twitter.

I might have oozed intellect if it weren't for my pathetic attempts to discuss new media and … the weather.

Perhaps, in the end, I am far better suited for solo manifesto writing in a cabin than I'll ever be as a screenwriter in Hollywood (though let's substitute beach for mountains, please). Can you picture me in a writers' room? Disaster. I'd have to set my chair up behind the white board.

I live and want to work in a town entirely based on relationships—the one thing I do not seek.

Maybe I should have mentioned Chechnya?

Kate

Step Up to Center Stage

It’s 3:00pm. I’m drinking a glass of red wine and watching the sequel to Center Stage. I’m not finished with the credits yet, but it feels remarkably like the Step It Up movies, and I’m left wondering who is going to utter the immortal words: “I am the best goddamn dancer in the American Ballet Academy. Who the hell are you? Nobody.”

Spoiler alert: Bad news, kids. Cooper’s dance company went under due to lack of funds, so he’s back being snarky about ballerinas and technique (though now I’m only about 2 minutes into the movie—things could change).

Clearly, this is why I quit my job. I could have been left without ever knowing this movie existed. God bless Netflix.

Also, pointe shoes on carpet…never a good idea.

Not that I just found that out. Because I didn’t. And that would have been silly. So, I didn’t.

Recognition

I'm sitting in a dance studio-- not any studio; the studio. I can't  begin to count the hours I spent in here-- required hours, stolen hours, all hours. Sense memory took over as I walked across the floor. Same creaks. Same smell. Same sense of wonder even if age has made some of those possibilities dim.

My body remembers this place. It remembers the calluses, the hamstring pulls and the exhaustion. And it remembers joy.

 I had a life here. I knew a boy here. I was challenged, frustrated and just shy of brilliant here-- at least once or twice.

Every five years or so I make this pilgrimage. I see old friends, and we talk about the years gone by. But this place I come to alone. Even though we had rehearsals and class here, each of us had our own experience-- our own blessings and curses. Explaining it to spouses and kids seems unthinkable.

Impossible to recapture youth, I know, and yet it feels so near here. If I close my eyes and take a deep breath I'll be who I was here.

I'm sitting in a dance studio. And I'm me here.

Red

I have three red shirts in my closet. For most people, this is probably not a stunning development. For me, it is practically as revolutionary as the color associations have been. I have black clothes, and when I want to spice it up, I move to gray or tan. Seriously. I've flirted with blues, but unless they are navy, even they feel a bit daring to me. And now I've gone red.

When I was a dancer, I had a choreographer who related a theory told to him by his favorite choreographer: "If you wear red, you must dance red."

Naturally, I thought he was a pretentious git, and I did my signature move of eye-roll and dismissal. Well, I definitely did the eye-roll. Apparently, the dismissal didn't happen quite as easily. I think somehow the idea that if I wore red, I'd have to dance red (or be red in non-performance life) took permanent hold.

I can't be red. I'm not a red person. Red means "look at me." It means "passion." It means "pay attention to me, or you will wish you would have."

"On Girls" wear red. I wear the daily equivalent of camouflage.

It's not that I haven't given it consideration. There is a pair of red stilettos in my closet that I have never worn. One of the fashion gurus said something about them being too provocative unless you are streetwalker, and I hid them in my closet.

But apparently, you can only keep red inside for so long.

This weekend I took the red out for a spin.

I liked it.

Look out Los Angeles.

Kate

The Wonderful World of Kate

The Wonderful World of Kate

• If I'm faced with the option of doing anything in the world, I sit down and watch television because having all the options are almost as paralyzing as having none.
  
• When trying to decide between cleaning and reading a book, I will always choose reading a book (even if people are coming over to my apartment). In fact, I seem to be choosing "reading a book" constantly these days. And it's kind of awesome.
  
• If Judgment Day really is Saturday, I think my V (original mini-series and final battle) viewing event is oddly appropriate. However, I have a date with Mitch Pileggi the next day that I'd rather not miss—and by "date", I mean attending a charity event where he is the guest of honor.
  
• I spend a fortune on local phone, long distance and cell and 99% of the time I would prefer to send an email rather than call someone… even people I know. In fact, I think I'm developing a phone phobia. The idea of calling a stranger for any reason makes my heart start to race. I'm not sure why. I guess I feel like I might be bothering them. I think we can safely rule out telemarketer as my next job.
  
• A friend suggested that without a structure and set plan for my year off, I will fall into a perpetual vacation mode that will go by very quickly. He is definitely correct. Alas, this has not yet prompted me to make that plan. Frankly, I'm not sure my brain has adjusted to the idea that I'm not going back to my old job, to my old life. Part of me is ready to heave that sigh of resignation and find my security card for the trip back to the office.
  
• With all the time in the world, I still avoid going to the grocery store. I do love being able to do laundry whenever the mood strikes me.
  
• I keep wondering how I can make a living wage by sitting at home and opining. I know there are people who do it, but thus far, no one has sent me a check. Rude!
  
• New shows are staffing with writers at this exact moment. Hands up if you think I should be one of them. Hands up if you think I'm better suited to solitary manifesto writing. Yeah, that's what I thought.
  
• I spent a terrific afternoon at the beach with friends (I do so have them) to celebrate a birthday (thankfully, not mine). The day was splendiferous. The sunburn I have right now is slightly less so given that only one side of my face is red, as though only part of my personality is chagrined about something. I'm not sure I want quite this obvious of a manifestation of my dual nature. Best to keep that bit a secret.
  
• I feel a deep, personal attachment to the animated Lemon in the new McD's ads. He seems so bummed out that lemons have become synonymous with a whole slew of negative things. That's right—I want to give an animated lemon a hug. Go me. I haven't lost my mind at all.
  
• My apartment has no sense of style. It barely has a sense of functionality. How do I get those HGTV people to come and suddenly make this place look like a comfortable showroom? And if that's not possible, how do I get someone to come over and help me move the TV? What about that charming Emily girl? She seems like fun, and really unlikely to make fun of me.
  
• Oh, Castle. You need to air all year. I know it would probably kill your actors, writers, directors, producers and crew, but let's think about me for a minute.
  

And those are the fascinating musings of Kate on an average Wednesday night.