Birthday

I come to you on this, the first day of my 43^rd year of being single, ready to impart all the wisdom I have accumulated on numerous topics. I am prepared to grant you access to the profound workings of my mind—which may or may not be clouded with a sugar rush that only a birthday cake and bubbly can bring.

Ready?

I have no idea what I am doing. And neither does anyone else.

If anyone knew for certain what to do in life, there would be only one self-help book on the shelf, and everyone would have adopted those guidelines because they worked for everyone. If there was only one way to find romance, there would be only one dating site. Also, you would not have, conservatively, 9,132 books about dating available on Amazon (there are actually more, but I didn't want to accidentally double count the hardcover and Kindle versions). There would be one book. Naturally, that book would be called "Dating according to Kate." Spoiler alert: it will include formal wear, as I recently rediscovered a couture dress in my closet that I'm dying to wear.

The best thing I can say is that after all of this time, I know me fairly well. It's not that I can't occasionally be surprising, but generally, I know me.

I seem to like asking questions more than either hearing (or giving) answers.
This is not just because I'm persnickety and argumentative, though undoubtedly both are true. For me, the journey tends to be more satisfying than the destination (unless we are discussing plane travel, and then… not so much). I like open-ended stories. I enjoy topical debate—which might seem odd since I often hold absolute opinions. But I do enjoy the questioning. Perhaps this is because the answers, thus far, have not lived up to their promise?

Chocolate is my favorite food group.
I used to think it was anything with salt, but chocolate has endured. It may be the true love of my life—which makes the very real possibility that I'm developing a chocolate allergy just a little disheartening. I plan to live in denial as long as possible. Certainly getting an actual allergy test is out of the question.

Someone needs to give me a $100 million entertainment development fund.
I think we can all agree that I would produce some incredibly entertaining work with $100 million. I'd also take $10 million…or $1 million. All of my incredibly talented friends (and I know many who just need that one break) would also benefit because the fund would finance their projects—provided they agree to cast a short list of actors I'd personally like to see work more… and if they would let me visit set…often… for, you know, script consulting purposes. Whatever. I think I would make a magnificent mogul. I'm adding the title to my business card right now.

As I get older, my inner monologue filter has started to become external.
And it's hysterical… although I would not be surprised in the least if it gets me punched at least once very soon.

I still believe I could wake up tomorrow and finally be 5'4".
Shhh. Let's not kill the fantasy.

Every year I call my parents on my birthday and hope that they have lied to me and that I'm actually 10 years younger.
They've started humoring me.

Even my fantasies are a disappointment.
The other night I had a fantasy where in the middle of an intellectual discourse, Clooney and I started to kiss. It was just "eh." He wasn't bad at it, and I think I held up my end with dignity. However, the spark just wasn't there. Typical.

The Best Made Plans…

… on a full moon Friday are bound to be thwarted at every turn. This is a story of one such set of plans.

Ever since a friend and I attended the BBC America party (and by attended, I mean crashed like the ninja you always suspected I was) and chatted with David Tennant (who turned out to be so lovely, I've given Doctor Who a shot), I've been feeling frisky. Both of us have been looking around for the next adventure bolstered by the confidence that an action plan and positive outlook would lead the way—ok, mostly the action plan.

I thought we'd found it: the Toronto International Film Festival. Why TIFF? I love films. I also love George Clooney (said to be attending), David Duchovny (said to be attending), Clive Owen (said to be attending), and Colin Firth (said to be attending). Plus, my new best friend David Tennant has a film opening there, and while he hasn't mentioned attending, throwing him in artistically would be fine with me. And of course, because the last adventure was such a rousing success, my brain immediately began to formulate all sorts of intricate scenarios. If I was able to chat with David Tennant over wine, surely the next adventure would top that?

So, my brain went to work.

Naturally, upon seeing "The Joneses" at TIFF, I would find myself debating film and literary themes with Duchovny as we hung out by the fire at a chalet (shhhhhhh, let's not ruin it with the whole "there probably aren't chalets in downtown Toronto" talk) while sipping a fine red wine (because even in the fantasy, I'm not eating). Of course, we would be interrupted from time to time when Mr. Clooney dropped by to inquire if I had any additional insight on Darfur, and to see if I'd ever consider returning to Think Tank work (of course, I think about returning to Brookings, George, but my place is here now). Needless to say, Clive and Colin would also wander by, chat and leave thinking, "If only we were single." Essentially I began to fantasize that our intellect and charm would be nearly as lauded as the films on display.

My positive outlook was working. All those pesky problems that could be noted as being inherent with the New Adventure Plan (NAP) just seemed to melt away.

For instance, NAP would take place in Toronto. I am not in Toronto. Toronto is deceptively far away, and I hate to fly. No matter! New Ninja Kate was willing to white-knuckle it for six hours to put NAP in play. Plus, I just watched a terrifying, yet really very helpful show on surviving a hijacking called "Surviving Disaster", and now that I know how to deal with a sucking chest wound, I feel much better about the whole thing.

The hotels are a little pricey, and my partner in crime is broke, but these are the emergencies that credit cards were made for.

We would not be stopped. Toronto was the next frontier. We would be delightful, alluring and ready to take on the world.

Or…

The festival is scheduled to run from September 10 through September 19. Not knowing what the film schedule was, I set about giving work a heads up that I'd be gone a few days during that time. At which point, they gave me the heads up that I was likely to be needed for "team building" in New York during the main week of the festival… possibly…and suggested that I should be prepared to leave the festival so that I could bond (and most assuredly play games like, "if your practice area is a color, what color would it be"). I suggested that if someone thought I would be skipping lazing about with George Clooney to build a tower out of office furniture, they could think again. Plus, I've seen that episode of "The X-Files", and unless they can guarantee that I'd be rocking Mulder in the woods, I was out.

But I was saved. Work delayed our bonding session. Our adventure was back on! Of course, by the time I knew we were saved, the advanced package tickets were sold out, and we'd have to wait to buy individual tickets, but no matter. It would be fine. I began to assess my wardrobe, and contemplate how I would juggle having multiple careers as documentary filmmaker, writer and analyst.

Obviously, between finances and work, we never planned on being there the entire time. So, we prayed to the film gods to put all the films we really wanted to see into 3 days. Hurray! The bulk of our "must see" films, no doubt to be followed by "must do" evenings, were covered in three days when the schedule was released. But we forgot to be specific. One of us, not the one with the first name starting in "K", has meetings all weekend on the 12^th and 13^th and couldn't possibly leave (without perhaps heavy bribery) before the night of the 13^th on red eye. Not a problem! The fest is long! What are the odds of the premieres being…

Sigh.

And then there was one.

Seeing no way to escape work commitments, partner in crime was to become long-distance cheerleader. For a week, I pondered the sense of me attending alone, knowing that under the best of circumstances I avoid interaction and that left to me, I'd just be paying a lot of money to see movies I'll eventually see when they are released to theaters. Plus, it looked like the hotels in the area were largely sold out. And I probably wouldn't be able to get tickets when they went on sale the morning of the 4^th.

But there was still a whisper of hope that there was an adventure to be had, and I don't usually hesitate to do things solo. So, I did some checking. The online schedule didn't indicate that any of the films were sold out. I found a hotel quite close to the theater where most of my chosen screenings would be held. And fortune was smiling because I happened to find a completely affordable (as in, I have shoes more expensive than that) flight to Toronto. It appeared that fate was smiling on me. I was giddy for at least 20 minutes. While not entirely settled on going, there was that tiny spark of mischief igniting.

Tickets went on sale at 7am Toronto time this morning. I woke up at 4am, VISA in hand, ready to deal. I took the constant error message at the online box office as only a minor annoyance. I thought, with only mild dismay, that my work computer had an out of date browser. So, I switched computers. Twice. I couldn't get the system to work. With a determination usually reserved for getting out of going somewhere at night, I picked up that phone and got ready to make it happen. Imagine my consternation when I got an "all circuits are busy" error recording in my attempt to reach Canada. Repeatedly.

Fine.

I showered. I contemplated. I waged war internally. I drove to the office. Same thing happened. No access. I told myself that I would try one more time, and if I couldn't get in, it was a sign that I was not meant to go.

You can guess what happened—I got into the system.

Joy. Rapture. Funny stomach feeling people tell me is happiness.

Reality.

I got into the system to find out that 2 of the movies I wanted to see were sold out, one was moved to later in the week, and one other kept giving me a "not available" error when I clicked on "buy".

Perseverance is one thing. But rejecting all the signs along the way is quite another.

For those of you lucky enough to attend the festival, take many photos and think of me. I will be eagerly watching coverage on the TIFF website and wishing that Toronto wasn't quite so far away. You know… until my internet access goes down and my computer crashes. But, boy, those first 20 seconds are going to be gold.

That was unexpected…

That was unexpected…

http://katedating.blogspot.com/2008/10/5-months-drawing.html

On October 19, 2008, I embarked upon an experiment. I left the five months that followed it up to the grab bag of fate, and hoped for the best. Admit it. You are curious how it all turned out, aren’t you? I will keep you in suspense no longer. While we still have approximately 20 days left to achieve greatness, let’s review.

1. Go Back to Dance Class.
Fate decided to get me moving again. It was a subtle nudge that simultaneously screamed “get off your fat ass”. Nice try. The ass is still firmly planted on the couch. I’ve started naming the dimples. I’ve not even dipped my toe back into the pilates pool. I’ve morphed into an actual sloth. Seriously, I hang from trees most of the time now.

Somewhat humorously, back in October I declared that this one was the easiest of the four tasks. My identity was so wrapped up in being a dancer for such a long time that it was just a given to me. I couldn’t begin to explain why it hasn’t happened. I like to point out that at heart, I’m a lazy person. Pen, my therapist friend, likes to say that I’m depressed. Well, ok, she doesn’t “like” to say it, she has just decided to diagnose me.

Points for achievement: 0. Points for effort: 0. Points for momentarily considering going back to dance class at some point in the next 20 days just to prove I can: 5.

2. Sell or Produce the Kate Dating Web-Series.
Interesting. I’ve written the first season of the web series, and now I’m re-writing it as a television series (or at least the pilot). And before March 19th, I will have submitted it somewhere. I can’t guarantee a sale, and the show will not be produced by then, but I think we’re definitely moving on this one.

Points for achievement: 0. Points for effort: 10. Champagne for everyone if this one is actually achieved in some measurable way before the end of the month.

3. At Least Once A Week, Open Mind to New Ideas (and say “yes”) and 4. Attend Charity Events and Actually Converse with Strangers at Event.
Wow. I can’t even tell you how many points I deserve for these last two. I thought these two were going to be impossibly difficult to achieve in any measurable way. I’m not a joiner by nature. I’m so narrowly focused on my life that the second I agree to something instead of excitement, I tend to feel the oppressive weight of obligation.

But I took a deep breath and said, “Yes”.

I became fully involved in IBG, a group that raises awareness and funds for start-up and underfunded charities (http://allthings.inspiredbygillian.com). That mere act of saying yes to being part of the organization required me to start talking to strangers at events. I’ve met some fascinating people, and, knock wood, so far my interaction has been pleasant—and in some cases, hilarious!

There was this event with Frank Spotnitz in December: http://katedating.blogspot.com/2008/11/im-not-sure-thats-what-fate-meant.html. The event was a huge success raising much needed funds for Neurofibromatosis, Inc. While not everything went exactly according to plan, everyone seemed to have a great time, and meeting Frank was wonderful. Sure, I actually tried to hide from him during the photo call because a) he was a stranger and b) I was being forced to have a photo taken, but let’s not dwell on that battle over my more covert tendencies.

As a direct result of that event, last Saturday night at a book signing for “The Complete X-Files”, Frank introduced the IBG team to Gillian Anderson. I couldn’t begin to tell you what we said to her. Everyone in the shop was in shock. She lives in London. But there she was. Talking to us. Bizarre doesn’t even begin to cover it.


The group is a whirlwind of activity. I’ve even been forced to let some of these people into my apartment. Gasp! I know! I’m right there with you. I’ve even been known to be out at night for at least 20 or 30 minutes. We’ve got a whole host of upcoming events planned, including a concert, a movie/tv marathon (ha! You didn’t think I was going to say some sort of exercise, did you?) and more auctions. We have items from/signed by George Clooney (swoon), Jimmy Kimmel (amazingly tempting green room passes are among his items), the cast of Private Practice, Kate Walsh, Chris Carter, Frank Spotnitz, David Duchovny and, of course, Gillian Anderson.

Points for achievement: 10. Points for effort: 50.

It’s hard to say at this point whether or not the grab bag of fate has been successful. The goal was to let a random pick of the draw force changes in my life. While I’m still very much in the same place I was before—small apartment, hermit-like aspirations, single, not a partier—in many ways my life has become increasingly connected with the outside world. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, I am committed (or will be, once my need for a straight jacket can no longer be ignored).

Kate, fighting the good fight, in LA

Leatherheads from Variety

I thought this was cute. How adorable is John in this? Also, I'm scanning for me and for Chloe because the cameras are pointed right at the door.

P.S. You'll have to manually remove the mute on the player.

The Clooney

My goals for the evening were pretty simple: 1) live through it, 2) enjoy the movie, and, if possible 3) see Clooney at the event. Oh, and not get arrested. That one was important, too. I’m happy to report success on all fronts—although that gleam in her eye could have meant trouble for Chloe had she not decided to keep her hands to herself. ;p

Hollywood Blvd. was pretty much shut down on one side so that the limos could drop people off on the red carpet. Our limo (aka my 10 year old car) was parked in a parking garage, and we walked up to the event from there. First of all, there were a lot of people behind the barricades cheering. Naturally, I thought they were cheering for me, and I was tempted to yell back, “I know! Can you believe I’m here?” But I didn’t. Plus, at some point I realized they were probably yelling for one of the stars walking the press line (nah, it was probably me). It’s a very interesting feeling to see and hear all these people, and then be one of the people ushered in by security. While I generally don’t love “ma’am” to be directed at me, I did love “right this way, ma’am, enjoy the evening” as security guided us safely inside.

Alas, this might have been a tactical error. We should have stayed outside a bit with the press to see some of the people working the press lines. Instead, we were pretty business-like. We found a bathroom. We checked our make-up. Then we hung around in the lobby trying to look calm, cool and collected—ho hum, we do this every day. That probably would have worked, if Chloe and I hadn’t squealed when we recognized Hiro from Heroes walk in the door.

Having our “we do this all the time” covers blown, we went in to take our seats. We had followed the rules to the letter because we didn’t really want to be tossed out before the action started—oh, and we wanted to see the movie, too. ;) The invite instructions said “no cameras or recording devices allowed”. So, we left the cameras at home (note: we actually went to an event where they confiscated cameras and cellphones with cameras for later pickup, and we wanted to avoid that). Sure enough, we take our seats, and every other person in the theater had cameras with them. Lesson learned: ignore directions and pick up spy camera to wear as glasses.

While we were sitting there we saw a number of celebs come in (you can see them all at www.wireimage.com), and right before the AFI presentation started, we noticed John Krasinski take his seat. He’s hard not to notice, actually. Obviously, he’s boyishly attractive and charming, but he’s also really tall. That one is going to stand out in a crowd no matter what.

It was 7:30, but no George.

My friend LD had warned me that the celebs frequently do the press line, but don’t stay for the actual movie, and opt to head directly to the party instead. I figured George might have made the move to martini a bit earlier—if for no other reason because he directed this movie, and he might be nervous about the reaction. So, I settled in to see the movie. The AFI presentation was lovely, and the introduction of the movie was made.

And then there was a pause.

For before the movie rolled, AFI wanted to take another small moment of recognition for the inspiration, “your quarterback”, the director, Mr. George Clooney.

And there he was—looking chagrined, yet pleased; the delightful Mr. Clooney was being treated to the simultaneous swiveling of 999 heads in his direction. Now, I’m not one to wax poetic about an attractive man (shhhhh, that epic Duchovny piece was just between us), but I might just be inspired at some point to write a sonnet, or two, for George. This man is a star. For all I know he’s a complete jerk on a personal level, but his public persona is pretty darn charming.

An aside for a moment about Leatherheads—it’s a fun movie. It’s very stylish. The banter is in the tradition of the 20’s/30’s movies and the performances were solid. It never takes itself too seriously. It’s just a good time.

He stayed until everyone left the theater. He stood on the aisle and spoke to anyone who attempted to talk to him. So, naturally, we stopped to speak with him, and now we’re doing lunch next week. OR we remember this is my reality, so I didn’t actually speak to him at all.

Now before you throw stuff at your computer screen, let me explain. When we came up the aisle he was talking to several young children. The girls were dressed in formals, and they looked like little princesses. The boy was dapper complete with styling hat. So, the talented and enchanting Mr. Clooney is also nice to small children. I realize that we were standing right next to him, and he was practically done speaking to them anyway. However, I distantly recall my parents mentioning that shoving small children out of the way to babble incoherently at a dreamy star, is actually bad form. So, I resisted the urge. There was a brief moment where Chloe contemplated pinching him, since she was awfully close to his hindquarters, but she also refrained. Please feel free to admire us, and throw large sums of money our way for adhering to some of the niceties of polite society.

Plus, we thought we’d get another shot at finding our courage at the party. Unfortunately, we never did see him there. He may have only stayed a short while, and departed through one of the side doors. But we did see tons of actors from The Office who were there to cheer on John. We also saw Goran (plays Luka on ER), who was pretty dreamy in his own right. And I think, with 99% certainty, that we saw Kid Rock.

All in all, it was a good evening. I only got 4 hours of sleep between the party and having to get up for work, but going a little sleepless every once in a while is probably good for the soul. However, I may need about a month to recover from all this social time. I wouldn’t want it to warp my otherwise normal, hermit-like psyche.

Kate, already thinking of sleep

http://www.cafepress.com/katedating
http://katedating.blogspot.com/
katedating@yahoo.com

T-Minus 3 Hours to Clooney

In preparation for this evening, I thought I’d do laundry. The card didn’t work.
I bought a new smartcard.

In preparation to do laundry, I gathered all my laundry into a huge basket and lugged it all to the elevator. The elevator didn’t work.

In preparation for this evening, I thought I’d dig out the base, and think about applying make-up—only to notice that somehow in the middle of the night, I’d been maimed. Apparently, I had rubbed my left eye too fiercely, and one of my nails must have been jagged. All I really know is there is a red, puffy scrape that makes me look like I’m undergoing the same affliction as one of the characters in the trailer for X-Files 2.

And I still don’t know what I’m wearing.

For her own safety, I think Chloe should really reconsider having me drive.

Kate, staring into her closet hoping for a magical designer genie to grant her three wishes in the next three hours


http://www.cafepress.com/katedating
http://katedating.blogspot.com
katedating@yahoo.com

Festive Dress?

Say I had an invitation to an event and an after-party. Say that event was a movie premiere tomorrow night. Say that event’s invitation indicated that the dress code was “festive dress”. What the hell would that mean? I’ve looked it up online, and unless this party is actually being held on Christmas (which it is not), it’s been very little help.

So far I’ve heard: casual, but not jeans casual, unless they are really cute jeans paired with amazing shoes and designer shirt—or you are a star, then you can do what you want (just for the record: no one has ever confused me with a star). I’ve also heard: slightly less than cocktail; informal cocktail. Um… cocktail to me means the classic little black dress. I’m from the eastern part of the country where little black dress is appropriate for every event except, possibly, a morning wedding, or a marathon.

Look, I can barely dress myself for my day to day work existence, and I feel quite festive in sweatpants. “Hollywood” life is mind-numbing. I’m all for casually flouting the dress code rules, but I’d like to at least have a vague concept of what they are. I have loads of semi-formal clothing—a bit of irony really considering how much I avoid leaving the apartment. What I don’t appear to have is the “oh-this-old-informal-yet-festively-not-quite-cocktail-thing-that-I’ve-just-thrown-on”, which is apparently required.

I’m not a D-lister. I’m not a Z-lister. I’m no where near the freakin’ list. Hell, I couldn’t find the list with a GPS. And yet, I feel like I need a stylist—someone special who can explain to me what is appropriate for this kind of situation. All of this fretting is going on inside my head despite the fact that not a single person will actually look at me (it’s that fact which is keeping me semi-sane… shhhh… am so).

Sorry? What premiere/party is it?

Leatherheads.

Not kidding.

Perhaps Mr. Clooney will find my sweatpants a refreshing change of pace.

Kate, who is trying to figure out how to bring a ficus with her, so she can hide at the event. Run away!!!!!!

http://www.cafepress.com/katedating
http://katedating.blogspot.com
katedating@yahoo.com

Frustration

My life has been an exercise in frustration lately…more than lately… say, for the last decade. And I don’t mean sexual frustration—although if they could figure out how to harness that, I’d single-handedly eliminate the country’s dependence on foreign oil. It just seems as though very little is easy right now. Relationships, my job, my hair, even my television watching has all been absurd.

It’s obvious what I have to do.

What? Pursue my hobbies to a point where I could leave my job and potentially meet more people leading to a successful relationship? Well, yeah, alright, that’s one way to go—if you’re sane. I think we’ve established on which part of the whole “sane” spectrum I land.

Instead, I believe in taking solace in a little bit of fantasy. I don’t mean I’ll be wearing a French maid’s costume to work any time soon—although it would be very funny given how staid and reserved things are. No, I believe in indulging in some fantasy boy time.

If you’ve been reading this blog at all in the last few weeks, you know that I find David Duchovny to be a very pleasant distraction (very, very, very, very pleasant). For instance, I hate flying. If you add a rainstorm and turbulence so bad that the flight attendants stay belted in for the entire flight, and normally, I’d be having a rough time of it. That perfectly describes my flight back from WonderCon. Did I freak out? Nope. I just put my headphones on and listened to the recording of The X-Files panel on my iPod. The dulcet tones of the whole X-Files gang kept a grin on my face nearly the entire way.

Distraction is a good thing when frustration bombards me. It keeps me from trying to dye my hair red in stages so that I look like a mutant zebra. So, I propose distraction in the form of the fearsome foursome: Duchovny, Hamm, O’Loughlin and Clooney. Technically speaking, the Duchovster has already done his job. We can check him off the list (although if he feels the need to pop up any time soon and offer me a position on Californication, he should feel free to do that). That leaves three potentially entertaining distractions to be experienced. The situation has to be live action (no movie watching will count). I don't have to talk to them, just encounter. Also, I tend to like to avoid illegal things, so I'm invoking happenstance (just in case that's actually possible)!

It doesn’t matter that I’ve never seen these three men walking down my street. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never been on set with them (as opposed to Duchovny). The only thing that matters is that I am determined to have a little fun. Instead of dwelling on aging and what gravity is doing to my breasts, bring on the boys!

Kate, hoping that this means these three will be wandering through my living room because I hadn’t banked on actually leaving the apartment for this adventure.

http://www.cafepress.com/katedating
http://katedating.blogspot.com/
katedating@yahoo.com

How to Start a Mid-Life Crisis

Today is my birthday, and I’m happy to report that my mid-life crisis has begun in earnest. I find the best way to get a head start on one of these things is some sort of explosion, or mechanical (swiftly followed by a mental) breakdown. So, naturally, my birthday began when the power went out at 3:30 this morning… and then I eagerly took a cold shower when the power still wasn’t on five hours later. Not to worry, though, the power absolutely came back on two minutes after I got out.

As you may recall, the last time power failed in my neck of the woods, it was the day I found out The Ex was getting married. I’m willing to concede that my level of psychosis that day may have blown out the grid. Apparently, the rising tide of unfounded feelings of betrayal somehow contributed to the blowing up of a local transformer.

Now, while I haven’t exactly embraced this birthday (please picture my nails scraping against the precipice as I claw against the gravity pulling me ever closer to the end of my 30s), I don’t think I can be held responsible for the power outage this morning. Unless, of course, it was one hell of a dream I was having. I have only a vague recollection of both Duchovny and Clooney fighting over me (boys… boys… don’t fight. I’ll just date both of you until we work it out).

It’s not that this birthday hasn’t had some upsides: lovely celebrations with friends and The X-Files gang very generously held a press conference for me today (really, guys, above and beyond giving me new footage to obsess over… what? Had something to do with the movie, and had nothing to do with my birthday? Why are you always so negative?).

There is really only one thing that nudged me closer to the cliff: for the first time in 17 years, I didn’t hear from him. It’s not exactly a surprise: he is married, and we haven’t had contact since we said goodbye at the reunion last year. I’m not suggesting that I was looking for some romanticized gesture, but despite the fact that we’ve stopped corresponding, I still believed he would reach out—some gesture that said “I’m still out here, and I give a shit”. It’s left me feeling bereft, wondering how I managed to be relegated to just someone he used to know.

Never fear, though. I will not backslide. I will not wallow (much) in self-pity and ice cream. I will not start singing from the Gloria Gaynor songbook. I will, instead, dye my hair mid-life crisis red. I have an appointment Saturday, and I think I’m going to do it. If you know me in real life, by Saturday afternoon, you won’t recognize me. In fact, I won’t recognize me. And I think that’s the point.

Kate, planning on looking like Amy Adams by Saturday (but will end up looking like Scooby Doo’s Thelma if she stole Daphne’s wig)

http://www.cafepress.com/katedating
http://katedating.blogspot.com
katedating@yahoo.com

Blog Tagged

Apparently, I’ve been blog tagged (http://danielletbd.blogspot.com/2008/03/blog-tag.html). I don’t exactly know if I’m doing this correctly, or not, but I figure I’m allowed to alter some of the rules because I’m adorable, and my mid-life crisis can’t take any more drama. As far as the rules go, I’m supposed to tell you seven odd or previously unknown things about me, and then I’m supposed to tag seven other bloggers. We’ll ignore the fact that I’m not sure I know seven other bloggers for the moment.

1. If George Clooney really is engaged to Ms. Larson (as reported by Perez Hilton), I’m actually happy for him. I know the first marriage didn’t work out, but I’m willing to bet he’s a bit more mature this time around. Good luck to them! And George, if you aren’t engaged, call me.

2. I look upon high school reunion news emails with more than a little trepidation. Actually, I look at them as though they are harbingers for doom. Right now the girls are exchanging “survey” emails about their 2.3 kids and their virile (yet sensitive) husbands. It’s not that I’m not thrilled to receive word from people I barely remember. I’m actually beside myself with joy. But the urge to screw with these people is almost overwhelming. I was valedictorian of my class, so it should be something good. Spreading a simple dot com billionaire gone bust story won’t cut it. I’m seriously contemplating a masterful work of fiction—or stabbing the next person who sends me a survey with the question, “when was the last time you were decently kissed”.

3. While disgusted by Mr. Spitzer’s possible “Client #9” status, I did take a moment to seriously contemplate the allegation that he paid for a “4 hour sex romp” with a call girl. Four hours? Sure, it’s probably not the truth and just one of the many rumors that will float, but I will admit that there was a second of admiration there. I can’t remember the last time I had a four hour sex romp. Actually, I can’t remember the last time I had sex. Have no fears though, the admiration lasted about a nanosecond before I went back to being disgusted on behalf of his wife and three teenage daughters. Thank you, “Mr. Clean”. Hope that ethics reform campaign works out for you.

4. I’ve been stood up more than once. I’ve learned that by hour three, you can officially stop justifying the missing date with “must have hit some rough traffic”. Only one of the dates had a good excuse: he was in jail. Not kidding.

5. I consider myself a pretty big X-Files fan (no, that’s neither the surprise, nor the thing about me you didn’t know). This factoid will only make sense to other X-Files fans. I loathe, loathe, loathe (with the raging fire of a thousand burning suns) the episode “Never Again”. It’s not the acting: Gillian Anderson is absolutely brilliant in it. It’s not the voice over: who doesn’t love Jodie Foster? It’s not that I don’t understand a story of rebellion and character development. It’s not that “Ed Jerse” isn’t hot: Hello! It’s that this episode’s intent was to destroy the Mulder/Scully relationship (not romance, relationship). The stated purpose of this (and another episode I loathe: The Field Where I Died) was to continue to create an atmosphere of betrayal (culminating in Mulder being institutionalized for his own good) which then would have led to a rebuilding year. What, in the midst of her cancer arc? Didn’t Morgan and Wong get the memo about the cancer arc? Do this in season 2, and I could have handled it. Doing it in season 4 after all the characters had been through—unacceptable. I will, however, still be friends with you even if you find redeemable qualities in this episode. Want to read more from the writers themselves? http://web.archive.org/web/20060327040940/http://www.morganandwongonline.com/paula14.htm

6. For years I kept pictures up in my apartment of people I couldn’t stand. They weren’t solo shots, or wanted posters, they were group photos that included people who were no longer in my life. I think I kept them as reminders, warnings of situations and personalities to avoid. Either that, or I was just really lazy.

7. I once went out on a date with a guy (no, that’s not the shocking part) who was gorgeous, smart and willing to spend a lot of time engaged in deep, meaningful conversation. I must admit, I was smitten despite my already unfortunate track record with men. He spent a significant portion of our time on this date convincing me that his mission was to restore my faith and ability to trust in men. As we were saying goodnight, I told him that I thought I might like this particular mission of his. He never asked me out, again.

I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.

And now for my tags:
Because Life Is Short, ADD Theater, KissyBoots, Anna, Stephanie, Mel, We Are Not A Muse

Kate
http://www.cafepress.com/katedating
http://katedating.blogspot.com/
katedating@yahoo.com

Now What Does That Say?

I’m having lunch tomorrow with a man. Yeah, don’t get excited—he’s married, we’re buds, and it’s a college alumni thing. But I think I should still get points for being social with a guy, right? Fine.

I’ve mentioned before that with the exception of a radically uncharacteristic boot purchase in December, I’m not really a fashion girl...or a make-up girl…or a hair brush girl… or…. Actually, I’m the kind of girl who frequently forgets to look in the mirror. Sure, I glance in the mirror as an incidental thing, but I don’t really spend much time there. This could possibly explain why I’m periodically surprised to see random things growing out of my face. It can actually be quite scary because I will suddenly notice a random eyebrow hair that looks like it’s about to eat a major metropolitan area, and then I have to wonder how long it has been there.

What does this fascinating ride through my toilette have to do with lunch? I’ve now spent more time trying to figure out what to wear tomorrow than I have in the last 3 months combined. Since I shun all forms of actual self-analysis, I hesitate to really examine my motivations here (but since I’m temporarily out of new X-Files videos to download, I will).

What I can tell you is the state of my fashion distress probably has nothing to do with the fact that the guy I’m meeting is friends with The Ex and knows The Ex’s new wife. Yeah, that’s just silly. Why would I care? I so don’t care. That’s just… uh, crazy talk. Seriously, that hasn’t even crossed my mind more than once or twice or…. What are you people smoking? I can’t believe you even suggested it.

Ok, it might in a tiny, minute, absolutely infinitesimal way have something to do with it. It’s not like I’d come up in conversation. They probably haven’t even spoken all that often since the wedding. But there is a dark, unappealing part of me that wants to be even more fabulous than I already am. You know, in that special way that will result in him saying to The Ex (if they talk again at any point in the next 10 years), “How did you let that one go? Damn, she’s so spectacular—mysterious, chic with a dash of Laura Ingalls. I think even George Clooney has been calling. Plus, I’m absolutely buying my wife boots just like the ones she wore”.

How wrong is that? After all this time, why on earth would I care? And yet, those thoughts are swimming around in me as vicarious revenge fantasies. I can’t win the guy, so I want to “win” the post-break-up perception.

Brilliant.

Well, at least the Jimmy Choos will make it out of my closet.

Kate, standing in front of my closet singing along with Bree Sharp’s “David Duchovny, Why Won’t You Love Me” song

http://www.cafepress.com/katedating
http://katedating.blogspot.com/
katedating@yahoo.com