Ah, more breaking news from the scientific world. Seems that they are close to perfecting the male birth control pill.
My first reaction-- Sweet!! Someone else can deal with the weight gain, emotional edge, etc. Rock on! Plus, I understand that they are really working to reduce the side effects that women have been dealing with for years. Because, of course, you can't have men dealing with those inconveniences.
And then my second thought-- would I actually rely on a guy to take that thing? Even if it is only a "several hours before" kind of thing. hmmmm
Now I'm sure that there are some great, responsible men out there... somewhere... probably. And obviously, there are always the losers to look out for. But it's the third group of males in this situation that could prove the greatest problem. They seem responsible, and they are genuinely good people. But in that group:
He's the guy who says something like "uh, yeah" when you ask if he has straightened up the living room. Then you discover his definition involved taking all the papers, etc. and putting them on the dining room chair... and pushing it in under the table.
He's the guy who wont change a bandage or take the meds to fight infection because you aren't around to remind him-- even though he knows if he doesn't, there is a 90% chance his hand will fall off from gangrene.
He's the guy who fixes a hole in his jeans with a staple gun-- while he's still wearing them.
He's the guy who will OD because he lives the theory that if one works, five will work better (also true of Viagra ;) ).
He's the guy who will carry the pill in his wallet for months (or years) waiting for the right moment, only to discover that years of sitting on it, has crushed it. So, you find him frantically licking his wallet when you take him home.
And anyone who has dealt with a man's definition of "later" (ie I'll call you later meaning anytime from the same day to six months down the road) knows that time is a fuzzy concept. Tell a man he needs to take something 3 hours before anything, and you better be there to remind him.
So, while I applaud the scientific community's latest efforts... hmmmmm
Kate, still searching for prince longshot, in LA
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Now what?
First off:
Happy Post-Thanksgiving! Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday.
Second:
Where the heck is prince charming? Is he still out eating pumpkin pie? Is he still over the river and through the woods and the horse actually forgot the way?
I have reluctantly agreed that never leaving my apartment might, might, be part of my dating problems. And while my trips to Starbucks count as out, I’m not sure my medical insurance can cover too many more encounters with Mr. Corner Table/glass door.
So, I went out.
At night.
3 times in one week.
It is possible that this kind of momentous act caused the tectonic plates to shift in some parts of the country. If you had an earthquake, that might have been me (Whoops! Sorry!).
Two of those three times were to places that included alcohol and a festive atmosphere. The other occasion was to the theater, and I’ve made my peace with the reality that very few single straight men go to musicals.
(Which, frankly, shows a lack of imagination on the part of single men—musicals and dance class are full of women with a whole lot less competition than a bar)
The good news—the evenings were great fun.
The bad news—no prince charming. No prince maybe, or prince possibly. No prince longshot, even.
My Type-A personality aside, I have realized that I might have to do more than walk into some place and say “hello world, here I am” (though, I’m perfectly willing to be proven wrong on that front).
So, now what?
And is there anyway I can wrap it up without interfering with my television watching schedule? Priorities.
Hee
Kate
Happy Post-Thanksgiving! Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday.
Second:
Where the heck is prince charming? Is he still out eating pumpkin pie? Is he still over the river and through the woods and the horse actually forgot the way?
I have reluctantly agreed that never leaving my apartment might, might, be part of my dating problems. And while my trips to Starbucks count as out, I’m not sure my medical insurance can cover too many more encounters with Mr. Corner Table/glass door.
So, I went out.
At night.
3 times in one week.
It is possible that this kind of momentous act caused the tectonic plates to shift in some parts of the country. If you had an earthquake, that might have been me (Whoops! Sorry!).
Two of those three times were to places that included alcohol and a festive atmosphere. The other occasion was to the theater, and I’ve made my peace with the reality that very few single straight men go to musicals.
(Which, frankly, shows a lack of imagination on the part of single men—musicals and dance class are full of women with a whole lot less competition than a bar)
The good news—the evenings were great fun.
The bad news—no prince charming. No prince maybe, or prince possibly. No prince longshot, even.
My Type-A personality aside, I have realized that I might have to do more than walk into some place and say “hello world, here I am” (though, I’m perfectly willing to be proven wrong on that front).
So, now what?
And is there anyway I can wrap it up without interfering with my television watching schedule? Priorities.
Hee
Kate
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Just a Thought
I saw today that People Magazine has once again voted George Clooney the sexiest man of the year.
Well...
Duh!
:)
Kate
katedating@yahoo.com
Well...
Duh!
:)
Kate
katedating@yahoo.com
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Kate's Roman Holiday
Ok-- Not really a holiday-- more like a Roman flight of fancy.
Sure. Some people might accuse me of putting off writing my self-evaluation, which is part of my annual review at work... um...and they might be right.
It's not that I don't want to write it. I just haven't figured out if "tired of bending over and taking it" goes in the Teamwork and Interpersonal Skills section, or in the Areas for Improvement Section. Decisions. Decisions. At least that long-standing question of "does anyone ever read these things" will be answered.
Anyway...
My general work dissatisfaction, and end of the year reflection, has left me pondering a change more seriously. And then I had this fateful conversation with a friend.
Me: "ooooh, you have a Rome office. I don't suppose there are any openings there. Ha Ha"
Her: "There is. Our person there just announced he was leaving."
(insert sound effect of needle scratching across a record here)
Rome. Suddenly all things wrong with the world could be fixed with one word, "Rome".
Sigh. So, instead of rationally assessing the situation (work would be the same, I'd have to move, I don't speak Italian, etc.), my thoughts went something like this:
*Rome-- where a few extra pounds probably don't matter... in fact, I'm sure I heard they were celebrated... mandated... a requirement for your resident visa.
*Rome-- where all the men look like the ones in this picture that El sent to me (shhh... my fantasy, work with me)
*Rome-- where I'm sure I'll be paid to eat yummy food, drink wine and soak up the atmosphere (see paragraph above for atmosphere appropriate for soaking)
*Rome-- where my fabulous Italian shoes will never scuff because I'll be carried on a chaise by Romans (again, see above) through the crowded streets where I'd be admired and adored (and in no way robbed like T on the train the last time I was in Rome).
*Rome-- where my charm is so obvious that I am instantly understood and lauded for my eloquence despite not speaking a word of Italian.
Yep. It was good, but in reality I'd be fired in the first week, my roman conveyance would end up being dropped, and I'd land in a fountain with a pack of wild dogs. So, I settled for seeing "The Light in the Piazza" (which was wonderful) and appreciated the fine talents of the cast... including the very fine Fabrizio.
Ah, Rome. :)
Kate, who is rethinking the whole "I don't watch soccer" thing, in LA
Sure. Some people might accuse me of putting off writing my self-evaluation, which is part of my annual review at work... um...and they might be right.
It's not that I don't want to write it. I just haven't figured out if "tired of bending over and taking it" goes in the Teamwork and Interpersonal Skills section, or in the Areas for Improvement Section. Decisions. Decisions. At least that long-standing question of "does anyone ever read these things" will be answered.
Anyway...
My general work dissatisfaction, and end of the year reflection, has left me pondering a change more seriously. And then I had this fateful conversation with a friend.
Me: "ooooh, you have a Rome office. I don't suppose there are any openings there. Ha Ha"
Her: "There is. Our person there just announced he was leaving."
(insert sound effect of needle scratching across a record here)
Rome. Suddenly all things wrong with the world could be fixed with one word, "Rome".
Sigh. So, instead of rationally assessing the situation (work would be the same, I'd have to move, I don't speak Italian, etc.), my thoughts went something like this:
*Rome-- where a few extra pounds probably don't matter... in fact, I'm sure I heard they were celebrated... mandated... a requirement for your resident visa.
*Rome-- where all the men look like the ones in this picture that El sent to me (shhh... my fantasy, work with me)
*Rome-- where I'm sure I'll be paid to eat yummy food, drink wine and soak up the atmosphere (see paragraph above for atmosphere appropriate for soaking)
*Rome-- where my fabulous Italian shoes will never scuff because I'll be carried on a chaise by Romans (again, see above) through the crowded streets where I'd be admired and adored (and in no way robbed like T on the train the last time I was in Rome).
*Rome-- where my charm is so obvious that I am instantly understood and lauded for my eloquence despite not speaking a word of Italian.
Yep. It was good, but in reality I'd be fired in the first week, my roman conveyance would end up being dropped, and I'd land in a fountain with a pack of wild dogs. So, I settled for seeing "The Light in the Piazza" (which was wonderful) and appreciated the fine talents of the cast... including the very fine Fabrizio.
Ah, Rome. :)
Kate, who is rethinking the whole "I don't watch soccer" thing, in LA
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Kate Talks to a Boy
This weekend Kate talked to a boy.
That's right-- you heard me. I talked to a boy. Please begin preparing-- the end is clearly near.
Picture me wearing something flowing that made me look deceptively tall (um... ok, taller... fine... not quite as short). My bizarro world hair was perfectly cascading down my back. Even had that heaving bosom thing going on. Everything I said was witty and charming. I left the man completely besotted. I expect lavish gifts any day now.
Sheyah-- or this story involves an electronic device and peril was certain.
I was helping a friend on his indie movie project (because this is LA, and that's what we do here on the weekends ;p ), and I was in charge of wrangling actors who came in for their ADR work. These actors included a fine specimen of a man who had worked on the shoot for about 2 days the previous fall. And even though he only had 2 lines, I asked him to come in. Hey, I'm single, not stupid.
So, the whole group of us are hanging outside, and I'm chatting and trying to figure out how to covertly take a photo of fine figure of man (here on known as "FFM") with my camera phone.
But for some reason, the universe decided to once again have its way with me. It refused to take the picture. No matter how many times I tried to press the little button on the little screen-- nothing. Camera phone=male. Obviously.
Let's face it-- you can only really try to take a photo covertly so many times before
a) the subject becomes aware that he's under scrutiny, and/or
b) everyone in the area wonders what's wrong with the girl who keeps mumbling, lifting up her phone, hitting it and then cursing.
I bet it was a camera phone that brought down Mata Hari, too.
Grant it, a normal person might stop trying to take this photo after... oh... the 10th no go. Not I. With extraordinary perseverance of someone truly idiotic, I kept trying. My friend had never seen FFM, and I had to send her a text message with his lovely photo. It was my mission (because in reality, text messaging has become the "passing a note in gym class" of my 30's).
I tried to play it off with the old "oh, it's so great to see everyone, I just want to grab some photos of all of you". And so moved by my sincere (uh.. yeah) efforts at capturing some would-be hallmark moments, out of the darkness (fine, afternoon sunshine) came the voice:
"maybe I can help"
uh.... help me? uh....
(ok, frantic weighing of options ensued. If he hits the wrong button, which is right next to the camera button, he will reveal all of my "he's so cute" text message ramblings. Tremendous potential for embarrassment. If I said no, it would have looked odd, after all my fussing and fuming about it not working. Plus, if he gets it working, I can get a photo).
So, after weighing my options (and hearing the imaginary cries from people who read this blog), I let him fondle my camera phone. That's right-- the man I was trying to covertly photograph ended up helping me to fix the camera so that I could take his picture.
Did he ever know he was the object of my frantic machinations? Hard to tell, but just to be certain, I set him up with my friend. That should throw him off ;)
Yeah, alright, so it all didn't go according to plan. But I did talk to a boy, so it goes into the success column. It's practically a date in my world.
And if my friend ends up marrying him, I have an amusing story to tell at the reception.
Kate, clueless with a fondled camera phone, in LA.
katedating@yahoo.com
That's right-- you heard me. I talked to a boy. Please begin preparing-- the end is clearly near.
Picture me wearing something flowing that made me look deceptively tall (um... ok, taller... fine... not quite as short). My bizarro world hair was perfectly cascading down my back. Even had that heaving bosom thing going on. Everything I said was witty and charming. I left the man completely besotted. I expect lavish gifts any day now.
Sheyah-- or this story involves an electronic device and peril was certain.
I was helping a friend on his indie movie project (because this is LA, and that's what we do here on the weekends ;p ), and I was in charge of wrangling actors who came in for their ADR work. These actors included a fine specimen of a man who had worked on the shoot for about 2 days the previous fall. And even though he only had 2 lines, I asked him to come in. Hey, I'm single, not stupid.
So, the whole group of us are hanging outside, and I'm chatting and trying to figure out how to covertly take a photo of fine figure of man (here on known as "FFM") with my camera phone.
But for some reason, the universe decided to once again have its way with me. It refused to take the picture. No matter how many times I tried to press the little button on the little screen-- nothing. Camera phone=male. Obviously.
Let's face it-- you can only really try to take a photo covertly so many times before
a) the subject becomes aware that he's under scrutiny, and/or
b) everyone in the area wonders what's wrong with the girl who keeps mumbling, lifting up her phone, hitting it and then cursing.
I bet it was a camera phone that brought down Mata Hari, too.
Grant it, a normal person might stop trying to take this photo after... oh... the 10th no go. Not I. With extraordinary perseverance of someone truly idiotic, I kept trying. My friend had never seen FFM, and I had to send her a text message with his lovely photo. It was my mission (because in reality, text messaging has become the "passing a note in gym class" of my 30's).
I tried to play it off with the old "oh, it's so great to see everyone, I just want to grab some photos of all of you". And so moved by my sincere (uh.. yeah) efforts at capturing some would-be hallmark moments, out of the darkness (fine, afternoon sunshine) came the voice:
"maybe I can help"
uh.... help me? uh....
(ok, frantic weighing of options ensued. If he hits the wrong button, which is right next to the camera button, he will reveal all of my "he's so cute" text message ramblings. Tremendous potential for embarrassment. If I said no, it would have looked odd, after all my fussing and fuming about it not working. Plus, if he gets it working, I can get a photo).
So, after weighing my options (and hearing the imaginary cries from people who read this blog), I let him fondle my camera phone. That's right-- the man I was trying to covertly photograph ended up helping me to fix the camera so that I could take his picture.
Did he ever know he was the object of my frantic machinations? Hard to tell, but just to be certain, I set him up with my friend. That should throw him off ;)
Yeah, alright, so it all didn't go according to plan. But I did talk to a boy, so it goes into the success column. It's practically a date in my world.
And if my friend ends up marrying him, I have an amusing story to tell at the reception.
Kate, clueless with a fondled camera phone, in LA.
katedating@yahoo.com
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