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
Sunday, July 29, 2007
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
