Just some quick reminders:
If you want an automatic notice that this blog has updated at the blogspot location, just send an email to katedating@yahoo.com with the email address you'd like to receive the update notice.
Also, the t-shirts, tote bags and hats for "LA, Where Dating Comes to Die" are all still available at www.cafepress.com/katedating. I'm going to be changing some of the designs, but for now you can still shop these :) I think they make awesome Valentine's Day gifts. Nothing says "being single on Valentine's Day sucks" like this particular design. Enjoy!
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
The Shape of Things to Come
Remember when you were a kid and things like cartwheels and handstands were just tricks you whipped out as the mood struck you? I distinctly remember using my bed as a vault—I had this completely inspired flip all worked out (perhaps if I had kept those adventurous bed skills going, I would have had more relationship success).
Well, yesterday, for no particular reason I thought, “hmmm, wonder if I can still do a handstand?”
Yeah. I wont leave you in suspense—the answer is no.
In my haste to recapture my more athletic youth, I forgot the main component of the handstand: the kick-up. Guess what the kick-up requires? Hamstrings that aren’t so tight that they could cut glass (yeah, I know that analogy doesn’t quite work, but you know what I mean. Work with me.).
So, picture me—short, frazzled, elderly, stressed out from a work-life that is steadily consuming every minute of my life. I was completely focused; right down to the weird squint and lip-biting thing I do.
All I had to do was reach down and kick… and kick… and arghhhhhhhhhhhh. Not only did I get only half way up, but I’m pretty sure I took out the downstairs neighbor’s ceiling when I fell. My bad. So, in addition to a severely pulled right hamstring, I knew I was going to have a nasty bruise on my right hip.
Logic would dictate that this experiment had come to a close while I hobbled to my desk to find the address of the local urgent care center.
Ha! Only amateurs give up when every sign in the universe points to failure. After all, I spent years (and year and years and years and years) believing that The Ex and I would live happily ever after. Subtle hints like barely being able to walk would not deter me.
No! It just meant I had to lead with the other leg. Why shred one hamstring when you can trash both of them?
This time, this time it would work! I just needed a better wind up. Clearly, it was my preparation that was a failure and not me. Everybody knows that if something doesn’t work the first time, all you have to do is apply greater force, and everything will be fine.
Well, everything would have been fine…you know, if it weren’t for the fact that I was doing this in my living room; a living room full of furniture.
I think all the energy, angst and ire that fill my work days had built themselves up and were just looking for a way to express themselves. I built up so much forward momentum that Mary Lou Retton will be calling any day now for pointers.
All that momentum translated into a world class half way handstand… mostly. One leg definitely got up. The other leg—not so much. It did, however, make contact with the side table, completely knocking off the picture frames, the box of change and a couple of candles. I suppose I should be thankful that the candles weren’t lit.
Note to self:
1) Don’t do gymnastics in the living room amidst furniture without stretching at least once in the year preceding the attempt.
2) Don’t do gymnastics after having a lousy week at work, particularly if it is 9:30 on a Friday night, and the gymnastics are serving as a break from finishing a presentation.
3) Get life.
Kate, limping in LA
www.cafepress.com/katedating
katedating.blogspot.com
Well, yesterday, for no particular reason I thought, “hmmm, wonder if I can still do a handstand?”
Yeah. I wont leave you in suspense—the answer is no.
In my haste to recapture my more athletic youth, I forgot the main component of the handstand: the kick-up. Guess what the kick-up requires? Hamstrings that aren’t so tight that they could cut glass (yeah, I know that analogy doesn’t quite work, but you know what I mean. Work with me.).
So, picture me—short, frazzled, elderly, stressed out from a work-life that is steadily consuming every minute of my life. I was completely focused; right down to the weird squint and lip-biting thing I do.
All I had to do was reach down and kick… and kick… and arghhhhhhhhhhhh. Not only did I get only half way up, but I’m pretty sure I took out the downstairs neighbor’s ceiling when I fell. My bad. So, in addition to a severely pulled right hamstring, I knew I was going to have a nasty bruise on my right hip.
Logic would dictate that this experiment had come to a close while I hobbled to my desk to find the address of the local urgent care center.
Ha! Only amateurs give up when every sign in the universe points to failure. After all, I spent years (and year and years and years and years) believing that The Ex and I would live happily ever after. Subtle hints like barely being able to walk would not deter me.
No! It just meant I had to lead with the other leg. Why shred one hamstring when you can trash both of them?
This time, this time it would work! I just needed a better wind up. Clearly, it was my preparation that was a failure and not me. Everybody knows that if something doesn’t work the first time, all you have to do is apply greater force, and everything will be fine.
Well, everything would have been fine…you know, if it weren’t for the fact that I was doing this in my living room; a living room full of furniture.
I think all the energy, angst and ire that fill my work days had built themselves up and were just looking for a way to express themselves. I built up so much forward momentum that Mary Lou Retton will be calling any day now for pointers.
All that momentum translated into a world class half way handstand… mostly. One leg definitely got up. The other leg—not so much. It did, however, make contact with the side table, completely knocking off the picture frames, the box of change and a couple of candles. I suppose I should be thankful that the candles weren’t lit.
Note to self:
1) Don’t do gymnastics in the living room amidst furniture without stretching at least once in the year preceding the attempt.
2) Don’t do gymnastics after having a lousy week at work, particularly if it is 9:30 on a Friday night, and the gymnastics are serving as a break from finishing a presentation.
3) Get life.
Kate, limping in LA
www.cafepress.com/katedating
katedating.blogspot.com
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Suspect Crush
Another Saturday night has come and gone, and because I love the night life (I’ve got to boogie), I spent it trying to upgrade my desktop computer. Sure, some people have told me to just throw out my computer—toss it aside after years of faithful companionship to find a sleeker, faster, sexier model. But that sounds so… male.
Instead, I’ve decided to treat it to an upgrade. This is, in part, because I’ve discovered that I can convert my existing DVDs to iPod format—all I need is more space. I’m putting in a shiny new hard drive, and I’m upgrading my USB ports. But most importantly, I’m working through our problems. I’m not just leaving it after years and years with some lame “we don’t have enough in common for a long-term relationship” line. No! I’m saying, “I’m so grateful for the time we’ve had together, and I want to work at it to make our relationship stronger”.
This decision to embrace computer therapy led me to Best Buy last night—and to what may be an entirely inappropriate crush on my Geek Squad agent.
I know that there is some sort of ethical (schmethical) code about a therapist getting involved with his/her patients. But technically, I’m not the patient here. As long as the Geek Squad guy doesn’t get involved with my computer, we should be in the clear. Although he is rooting around in the insides of my computer right now, so I’m not sure how much more intimate he can get with it. Hmmmm.
It occurs to me that I almost have to date this guy—not just because he’s handy with computers, although that is obviously something that would be useful down the road. No, I think it’s a necessity because once a guy has seen your personal hard drive, and what it contains, there really aren’t too many more secrets to be shared. It’s pretty much date him, or have him killed. Of course, I realized this after I turned over the computer, and he hooked it up to a big monitor to make sure it was fully functional before working on it.
There is nothing like that sudden “oh, oh, I wonder what is on there” feeling when it is already too late to do anything about it. Luckily, I’m 90% sure that I’ve deleted the naked David Duchovny photos. Sadly, I don’t have any naked George Clooney photos to delete (thankfully, I do have Solaris, though). It’s not like there is porn on the computer, although I suppose some of that fanfiction might count (although it’s literature, really… no, really, really!). It’s more a—wow, if he checks out iTunes, I’m never getting a date.
The Geek Squad agent was quite cute, but he had a touch of rebel—perhaps hipster in him. Normally, I shy away from this kind of guy. I’m old school; I don’t want to have to fight with my boyfriend over which of us gets to wear the little silver hoop earrings. But he was cute enough to overlook this potential pitfall.
I’d seen enough episodes of “Chuck” to know that there was a chance that my agent could be adorable with a mysterious side. But the show also led me astray—Chuck looks like he’s in his late 20’s at least. My hipster is quite possibly 22ish. Eeeek!!
And right now the crush, which is suspect from its inception because of his near infancy, isn’t thinking, “hey, she was sort of cute for an old, clueless broad”. Instead, he’s thinking, “Manilow?”
I can only hope he doesn’t happen upon my scans of my junior and high school photos. They weren’t good years for me, as no one had yet suggested curling iron restraint.
Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating
Instead, I’ve decided to treat it to an upgrade. This is, in part, because I’ve discovered that I can convert my existing DVDs to iPod format—all I need is more space. I’m putting in a shiny new hard drive, and I’m upgrading my USB ports. But most importantly, I’m working through our problems. I’m not just leaving it after years and years with some lame “we don’t have enough in common for a long-term relationship” line. No! I’m saying, “I’m so grateful for the time we’ve had together, and I want to work at it to make our relationship stronger”.
This decision to embrace computer therapy led me to Best Buy last night—and to what may be an entirely inappropriate crush on my Geek Squad agent.
I know that there is some sort of ethical (schmethical) code about a therapist getting involved with his/her patients. But technically, I’m not the patient here. As long as the Geek Squad guy doesn’t get involved with my computer, we should be in the clear. Although he is rooting around in the insides of my computer right now, so I’m not sure how much more intimate he can get with it. Hmmmm.
It occurs to me that I almost have to date this guy—not just because he’s handy with computers, although that is obviously something that would be useful down the road. No, I think it’s a necessity because once a guy has seen your personal hard drive, and what it contains, there really aren’t too many more secrets to be shared. It’s pretty much date him, or have him killed. Of course, I realized this after I turned over the computer, and he hooked it up to a big monitor to make sure it was fully functional before working on it.
There is nothing like that sudden “oh, oh, I wonder what is on there” feeling when it is already too late to do anything about it. Luckily, I’m 90% sure that I’ve deleted the naked David Duchovny photos. Sadly, I don’t have any naked George Clooney photos to delete (thankfully, I do have Solaris, though). It’s not like there is porn on the computer, although I suppose some of that fanfiction might count (although it’s literature, really… no, really, really!). It’s more a—wow, if he checks out iTunes, I’m never getting a date.
The Geek Squad agent was quite cute, but he had a touch of rebel—perhaps hipster in him. Normally, I shy away from this kind of guy. I’m old school; I don’t want to have to fight with my boyfriend over which of us gets to wear the little silver hoop earrings. But he was cute enough to overlook this potential pitfall.
I’d seen enough episodes of “Chuck” to know that there was a chance that my agent could be adorable with a mysterious side. But the show also led me astray—Chuck looks like he’s in his late 20’s at least. My hipster is quite possibly 22ish. Eeeek!!
And right now the crush, which is suspect from its inception because of his near infancy, isn’t thinking, “hey, she was sort of cute for an old, clueless broad”. Instead, he’s thinking, “Manilow?”
I can only hope he doesn’t happen upon my scans of my junior and high school photos. They weren’t good years for me, as no one had yet suggested curling iron restraint.
Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating
Thursday, January 17, 2008
The Hits Keep Coming
I found a really nice distraction in my elevator at work last week. He is tall. He has brownish hair and just enough geek in him to make me think wistfully of tweed jackets and profound discourse over bottles of wine.
We didn’t have stunning interaction. I held the elevator for him (one of my best moves, I think). He said “thank you”. I said “of course, I’ll marry you”. Oh, wait, no, that was just in the thought bubble above my head. Live action Kate responded with “Hi”. I know, way to sell it.
Then we stood there. We smiled. We looked at the fascinating floor numbers scroll. I may have contemplated accidentally pulling the emergency stop. Alas, before I could do anything the elevator got to his floor. Why? Why? Why does the universe hate me so much as to put this guy on the 10th floor instead of the 20th?
Doors started to slide open. The moment had come. He turned to me and said “have a nice day” in a way that clearly meant “I’ve already spoken to your father, I have the engagement ring in my pocket, and we’re eloping to Italy right now.” No, I don’t think I was reading into it, at all. Why?
I, naturally, responded with something eloquent and heartfelt. It was sort of a combination of “thank you” and “you, too”—which pretty much came out as “thanktoothmpfpst” as the door slid shut, again. Yep, I was just incoherent enough to give the impression of a quality education and a life as one of the great communicators.
Well, I was smitten enough to not to let this kind of encounter go as a chance unintelligible meeting of strangers. I set my friends on the task of figuring out who this lovely man was, while secretly praying that he wasn’t actually as young as he looked.
Why didn’t I pursue this on my own? Are you kidding? Didn’t you read how I handled our initial points of contact? I needed skilled women, who might not be adverse to a little deviousness to get the job done. I needed a team. Luckily, I have such a team, and they went to work.
They got his company name. We figured out that a little careful stalk… uh… strolling close to the parking garage benches at the right time in the morning would probably do the trick. Someone suggested wearing the Jimmy Choo boots to get his attention. I did briefly think about tripping him with the boots. But I had to veto the idea because they might get scuffed. You don’t scuff the Choo’s.
Sounds foolproof, right?
Right. If the universe didn’t hate me, it would have been. Since we all know the universe has a not so secret plot to destroy me, I should have seen this coming.
Married? 20? Gay? All of these things I could have dealt with in appropriate ways.
Guess what I didn’t anticipate? The strike. I didn’t anticipate that his company would lay off the majority of their workforce the day after I met him. So, instead of elevator rides fraught with passionate looks and possible multi-syllable exchanges, he got a pink slip.
Seriously, universe, you don’t think this was a little much?
I’m just saying.
Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating
We didn’t have stunning interaction. I held the elevator for him (one of my best moves, I think). He said “thank you”. I said “of course, I’ll marry you”. Oh, wait, no, that was just in the thought bubble above my head. Live action Kate responded with “Hi”. I know, way to sell it.
Then we stood there. We smiled. We looked at the fascinating floor numbers scroll. I may have contemplated accidentally pulling the emergency stop. Alas, before I could do anything the elevator got to his floor. Why? Why? Why does the universe hate me so much as to put this guy on the 10th floor instead of the 20th?
Doors started to slide open. The moment had come. He turned to me and said “have a nice day” in a way that clearly meant “I’ve already spoken to your father, I have the engagement ring in my pocket, and we’re eloping to Italy right now.” No, I don’t think I was reading into it, at all. Why?
I, naturally, responded with something eloquent and heartfelt. It was sort of a combination of “thank you” and “you, too”—which pretty much came out as “thanktoothmpfpst” as the door slid shut, again. Yep, I was just incoherent enough to give the impression of a quality education and a life as one of the great communicators.
Well, I was smitten enough to not to let this kind of encounter go as a chance unintelligible meeting of strangers. I set my friends on the task of figuring out who this lovely man was, while secretly praying that he wasn’t actually as young as he looked.
Why didn’t I pursue this on my own? Are you kidding? Didn’t you read how I handled our initial points of contact? I needed skilled women, who might not be adverse to a little deviousness to get the job done. I needed a team. Luckily, I have such a team, and they went to work.
They got his company name. We figured out that a little careful stalk… uh… strolling close to the parking garage benches at the right time in the morning would probably do the trick. Someone suggested wearing the Jimmy Choo boots to get his attention. I did briefly think about tripping him with the boots. But I had to veto the idea because they might get scuffed. You don’t scuff the Choo’s.
Sounds foolproof, right?
Right. If the universe didn’t hate me, it would have been. Since we all know the universe has a not so secret plot to destroy me, I should have seen this coming.
Married? 20? Gay? All of these things I could have dealt with in appropriate ways.
Guess what I didn’t anticipate? The strike. I didn’t anticipate that his company would lay off the majority of their workforce the day after I met him. So, instead of elevator rides fraught with passionate looks and possible multi-syllable exchanges, he got a pink slip.
Seriously, universe, you don’t think this was a little much?
I’m just saying.
Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating
Monday, January 14, 2008
Thoughts on a Monday
The Lives of Others
My friends definitely have more interesting lives than I do. I recognize that this fact in and of itself is not remarkable. You probably could have guessed this all by yourselves. But it wasn’t until this weekend that I realized exactly how much more interesting.
For instance, on Saturday, I went with a friend to see “Juno” (great--- loved it!). I tried to clean (failed miserably). I caught some football. Overall, it was a pretty raucous day in Kate-ville.
And then I get this email from my friend, PT:
“right now I'm sitting in class sculpting genitalia out of PlayDoh.”
Huh. Well, that puts my Saturday to shame. In fact, it puts most of my days to shame.
I’ve often contemplated taking a class, but who knew a degree in psychology was where the action was? I was happy to know that her model of male genitalia was used as an example for the rest of the class.
Since I had to think twice about the spelling of genitalia, I think it’s safe to say that I would not be winning this particular honor. I’m more likely to be looking at my classmate’s project and saying things like “Seriously?” or “Stop, you’re giving me nightmares”.
The Golden Globes
Many people have asked me my opinion about the WGA strike. One of these days I’ll start the rant, and you will wish I shut up. But for the moment, we need to examine one very important fact: the strike ruined my chance for a dream night. David Duchovny, George Clooney and Jon Hamm were all nominated. Under normal circumstances, they all could have been at the Beverly Hilton last night. Add to that fact that the Globes loves to invite new stars of shows, and we could have added an Alex O’Loughlin sighting.
Four hot men. One room. All wearing tuxes.
But nooooooooooooooooooooooo. Sure, sure, people are out of work, but let’s keep our eyes on the real tragedy here. We missed out on seeing the perfect storm of gorgeous, talented men, and that is just unacceptable. Haven’t we suffered enough? No one should have to miss out on the delectable David Duchovny accepting his best actor award for Californication (much deserved as he plays wicked the way very few people can).
I’m trying to console myself with ice cream and the fact that I’ve seen three of the four in the post-Globes coverage.
Seriously, folks, let’s get this strike settled before another hot man and a tux are torn apart—and not in a good way.
Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating
My friends definitely have more interesting lives than I do. I recognize that this fact in and of itself is not remarkable. You probably could have guessed this all by yourselves. But it wasn’t until this weekend that I realized exactly how much more interesting.
For instance, on Saturday, I went with a friend to see “Juno” (great--- loved it!). I tried to clean (failed miserably). I caught some football. Overall, it was a pretty raucous day in Kate-ville.
And then I get this email from my friend, PT:
“right now I'm sitting in class sculpting genitalia out of PlayDoh.”
Huh. Well, that puts my Saturday to shame. In fact, it puts most of my days to shame.
I’ve often contemplated taking a class, but who knew a degree in psychology was where the action was? I was happy to know that her model of male genitalia was used as an example for the rest of the class.
Since I had to think twice about the spelling of genitalia, I think it’s safe to say that I would not be winning this particular honor. I’m more likely to be looking at my classmate’s project and saying things like “Seriously?” or “Stop, you’re giving me nightmares”.
The Golden Globes
Many people have asked me my opinion about the WGA strike. One of these days I’ll start the rant, and you will wish I shut up. But for the moment, we need to examine one very important fact: the strike ruined my chance for a dream night. David Duchovny, George Clooney and Jon Hamm were all nominated. Under normal circumstances, they all could have been at the Beverly Hilton last night. Add to that fact that the Globes loves to invite new stars of shows, and we could have added an Alex O’Loughlin sighting.
Four hot men. One room. All wearing tuxes.
But nooooooooooooooooooooooo. Sure, sure, people are out of work, but let’s keep our eyes on the real tragedy here. We missed out on seeing the perfect storm of gorgeous, talented men, and that is just unacceptable. Haven’t we suffered enough? No one should have to miss out on the delectable David Duchovny accepting his best actor award for Californication (much deserved as he plays wicked the way very few people can).
I’m trying to console myself with ice cream and the fact that I’ve seen three of the four in the post-Globes coverage.
Seriously, folks, let’s get this strike settled before another hot man and a tux are torn apart—and not in a good way.
Kate
www.cafepress.com/katedating
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
The Routine
Daring and adventurous are rarely words associated with me these days. Sure, once upon a time, you may have found me hitchhiking in the Soviet Union, but these days my view of adventure is checking to see if there is a new episode of “Moonlight” on TV, or looking for change in my pockets (come on big money). But every once in a while…
I believe I expressed my completely rational loathing (LA LA LA Loathing, unadulterated loathing; For your face; Your voice; Your clothing; Let's just say - I loathe it all…) of New Year’s Eve festivities. However, that is not to say that I do not perform certain rituals to mark the passage of yet another year.
3:30pm
I like to start the evening off with a round of personal recriminations. My favorites involve “How could I?” and “Why didn’t I?” Feel free to incorporate your own. This can take quite a while, so I like to be prepared to take several breaks involving ice cream.
6:00pm
From here, I like to smoothly transition into some good, old-school self-pity. I have to start this early because otherwise by the time I get around to the “why God, why” business, I’ll have missed the new year –
9:00pm
– which starts at 9:00:01pm. The simple reality is that watching a re-run of the ball dropping in New York at midnight in Los Angeles is not inspiring enough to keep my enormous bum out of bed. I usually celebrate with the east coast by doing the count down, marveling at the insanity of anyone willing standing in the cold for hours, and then turning out the light.
9:05pm
Yawn. Happy New Y… zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
It’s not that I don’t mix it up. Occasionally, I’ll alter the kind of ice cream. One particularly wild year, I distinctly remember chips and salsa. These are time-honored traditions not to be discarded lightly—which makes my decision this year unanticipated.
I went out.
It was dark, and I left my apartment. I willfully engaged in frivolity in the Hollywood Hills. I am living the dream. I expect TMZ to be calling for a statement any moment now. Please express your appreciation and amazement by sending cash (large bills only) or sizeable checks to the “Help Pay Off The Jimmy Choo Stiletto Boots That I Wore to This Party” fund.
And no, it does not matter that I was only there for 45 minutes. The only thing that matters is that I actually had fun—nice people, beautiful view, shocked hosts and still home and asleep by 10:30. It’s not the quantity of partying, but the quality of partying that counts.
(No, really, the party was great and hosted by dear friends who took my initial RSVP of “Hell no, I’m not coming to a New Year’s Eve party” in the loving way it was intended. And yes—45 minutes.)
Maybe next year, I might stay 52 minutes (no promises). Obviously, now everything is up in the air. You have to re-examine all your pre-conceived notions about me. I am unpredictability personified.
And now I have to rest from all the excitement.
Kate
(The envy of It girls everywhere—provided they are over 50 and institutionalized)
I believe I expressed my completely rational loathing (LA LA LA Loathing, unadulterated loathing; For your face; Your voice; Your clothing; Let's just say - I loathe it all…) of New Year’s Eve festivities. However, that is not to say that I do not perform certain rituals to mark the passage of yet another year.
3:30pm
I like to start the evening off with a round of personal recriminations. My favorites involve “How could I?” and “Why didn’t I?” Feel free to incorporate your own. This can take quite a while, so I like to be prepared to take several breaks involving ice cream.
6:00pm
From here, I like to smoothly transition into some good, old-school self-pity. I have to start this early because otherwise by the time I get around to the “why God, why” business, I’ll have missed the new year –
9:00pm
– which starts at 9:00:01pm. The simple reality is that watching a re-run of the ball dropping in New York at midnight in Los Angeles is not inspiring enough to keep my enormous bum out of bed. I usually celebrate with the east coast by doing the count down, marveling at the insanity of anyone willing standing in the cold for hours, and then turning out the light.
9:05pm
Yawn. Happy New Y… zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
It’s not that I don’t mix it up. Occasionally, I’ll alter the kind of ice cream. One particularly wild year, I distinctly remember chips and salsa. These are time-honored traditions not to be discarded lightly—which makes my decision this year unanticipated.
I went out.
It was dark, and I left my apartment. I willfully engaged in frivolity in the Hollywood Hills. I am living the dream. I expect TMZ to be calling for a statement any moment now. Please express your appreciation and amazement by sending cash (large bills only) or sizeable checks to the “Help Pay Off The Jimmy Choo Stiletto Boots That I Wore to This Party” fund.
And no, it does not matter that I was only there for 45 minutes. The only thing that matters is that I actually had fun—nice people, beautiful view, shocked hosts and still home and asleep by 10:30. It’s not the quantity of partying, but the quality of partying that counts.
(No, really, the party was great and hosted by dear friends who took my initial RSVP of “Hell no, I’m not coming to a New Year’s Eve party” in the loving way it was intended. And yes—45 minutes.)
Maybe next year, I might stay 52 minutes (no promises). Obviously, now everything is up in the air. You have to re-examine all your pre-conceived notions about me. I am unpredictability personified.
And now I have to rest from all the excitement.
Kate
(The envy of It girls everywhere—provided they are over 50 and institutionalized)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
